


I'd Really Love to See You Tonight (But Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?)

by BennyBatch, Forgotten_Alice12



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bartender Dean, Bobby's Garage, Dean in Panties, Dean is a Tease, Editor Castiel, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Nightclub AU, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Frustration, Strip Tease, Stripper Dean, Stripper Gabriel, Stripper Sam, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Writer Chuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 37,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BennyBatch/pseuds/BennyBatch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forgotten_Alice12/pseuds/Forgotten_Alice12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nightclub!AU: Castiel is the editor for upcoming author, Carver Edlund (also known as Chuck Shurley). When he needs to edit a scene involving strip clubs, he finds himself being dragged off to Lawrence's most exclusive nightclub--SPN--by his nosy brothers (even if they do work there, it's a little weird). He's sort of expecting the raucous mobs of people and the loud music, but he wasn't expecting the handsome, green-eyed guy behind the bar... or anything that came after.</p>
<p>Inspired by <a href="http://castiel-deschanel.tumblr.com/post/79297518708/whosia-supernatural-au-where-supernatural">this post</a> on Tumblr. **We will try to update as often as we can, but they will be sporadic as both of us are college students. Assume that everyone is human.</p>
<p>*Rated 'E' for explicit sexual content (later on) and sexy dancing skills!*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Castiel liked a lot of things. He liked cats and guinea pigs, eating hamburgers and drinking coffee, playing card games and reading. He liked honey and bees and watching them pollinate flowers in the warm summer sunshine. His job, on the other hand, he loved. Editing for upcoming author Chuck Shurley—pen name Carver Edlund—was a dream. He was good about meeting all of his deadlines and took edits in stride. Even his arguments against Castiel’s proposed changes were polite and factually sound. Castiel was grateful to have such a goodnatured author in his care. Chuck made his job easy, which was a blessing in itself.

What he wasn’t in love with was going out on “research field trips.” That usually meant interacting with the general public, who were—in his experience—not nearly as gracious and complaisant as Chuck. Castiel knew his “people skills” were “rusty” at best, and his face had taken it’s fair share of abuse from any number of strangers that he had accidentally insulted over the years. Just the thought of having to go out on a “field trip” made him anxious. So, when Chuck wrote a chapter about his characters going clubbing for a recon mission and asked Castiel’s opinion… well, he wasn’t exactly excited. Mortified? Definitely. But he knew this chapter was important to the story _and_ his author. Castiel was _not_ going to disappoint him.

Still, it was a little surreal to be standing outside Lawrence’s most exclusive nightclub with his brothers flanking him. SPN was a massive brick cube, probably once used as a storage building or something equally mundane. Even armed with this knowledge, the looming structure was intimidating. Castiel swiped his clammy palms against his slacks as his stomach somersaulted itself into knots.

“This is a bad idea, I should go.”

“Hold your horses, Cassie,” Gabriel said, catching Castiel by the elbow when it looked like he was going to bolt, “You’re the one who said you needed to come for Chuck. You can’t bail out on him now.”

“I know,” he sighed, wringing his hands nervously, “But this is… not within my area of expertise.”

“Just come for an hour,” Balthazar insisted in his usual half-patronizing fashion, “Catch a bit of the show before you go, though, since your pet author has that written in, too. Your fault if you miss something good, though.”

Castiel sighed. He owed Chuck at least this much. It was only an hour, after all. And then he could leave and be extra antisocial later to make up for it. “I suppose I can stay for that long—”

“Great! Come to the back with us,” Gabriel insisted, throwing an arm around his little brother’s shoulders and guiding him inside.

He blinked, following obediently. “Why?”

“Are you serious?” Balthazar demanded. “You can’t go into a club dressed like _that!_ Trench coats may up the mystery factor, but they do _nothing_ for your figure.”

“Balthazar, Gabriel,” Castiel began, a pleading edge to his otherwise neutral voice as his brothers rushed him into their private, ‘backstage’ room, “I’m not sure about this.”

They both shot their younger brother a long-suffering look before turning toward each other sympathetically.

“Unbelievable,” Gabriel sighed dramatically, “He decides to come out of his little hobbit hole—to _the_ hottest club around, no less—and  he’s ‘not sure’ about putting on something nicer.”

“Are you absolutely sure he’s _our_ brother?” Balthazar asked absently, turning toward the vanity mirror to apply a touch of eyeliner and ‘fix’ his dirty blonde hair before swanning off to the clothing rack.

“Not entirely.”

Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose. He wondered if they ever made it through a day without being melodramatic. “I’m standing right here.”

“Yup, just like the bump on a log you are!” Gabriel replied cheerfully before taking his younger brother by the arm, steering him toward the mirror, and shoving him into the seat in front of the enormous mirror. “C’mon, Cassie, it’ll be great! We’ll just doll you up a bit—”

“I would prefer if you didn’t,” he interrupted hastily, distress widening his blue eyes.

“Aww, how adorable. He thinks that was an offer.” Balthazar crooned, pinching Castiel’s cheek. It was when he saw Gabriel holding the eyeliner that he knew he was thoroughly screwed.

///

“C’mon, Sammy, let’s go!” Dean hollered over his shoulder, tightening his favorite blue tie and turning down the collar of his pristine, black button-up in the reflection of their grimy hall mirror. Absently, he thought about cleaning it. He shook his head. Maybe later, but right now, they were running behind.

“Okay, okay, I’m ready.” Sam bounded down the stairs two at a time, a bulky garment bag slung over his shoulder. “We’re going to be freakishly early. You know that, right?”

“I’m bartending tonight, so I’ve gotta know what we have.” He gave the bag a pointed glance as he slipped on his black dress shoes. “Trying something new?”

Sam blushed. “Maybe.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up as he smoothed the wrinkles out of his shirt. “Seriously? You strip for a living, and you still blush about new outfits?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s adorable. How do you perform without choking?” He teased lightly, straightening out the belt that hugged the waist of his black slacks. “Do you have a stash of weed you aren’t telling me about?”

“If I did, I _definitely_ wouldn’t tell you. You’d smoke it all,” Sam grumbled, slipping on his beat-up sneakers before muttering under his breath, “I hate this job.”

Dean frowned over his shoulder. “Aw, c’mon, Sam. It’s the family business, what else do we have?”

“You know, the more you play that card, the less I actually care. Besides, the new owner gives me the creeps.”

With a careless shrug, Dean snatched up the keys to his ’67 Chevy Impala and ushered his whiny little brother out the door. “Look, Crowley’s not so bad, and we only have to put up with him until you’re done getting your business degree. Dad basically handed the place to you.” There was an edge of wistful frustration in his tone that he just couldn’t keep out. He wasn’t upset about it, not really. He was proud of Sam for going to college, and he was happy that the new boss wouldn’t be around for much longer. He was just a little bitter that he’d been passed over yet again. _Ah, the joys of being second best._

As per usual, Sam seemed to sense his mood. “You know I’m gonna give it to you, right? SPN is your life,” he answered, frowning as he slid into the car, “You would know how to keep it from going under better than anyone. Hell, you practically _live_ there, you pretty much know everyone by name. I’d be fine just keeping the books. If you want her, I’ll be more than happy to sign her over to you.”

Dean sagged a little under the praise, guilt washing through him. He always felt bad when Sam tried to make him feel better. “Well, yeah, but that’s cuz that’s what Dad wanted us to do. Take over when he was done.” He snuck a peek at his brother. He looked crestfallen, like someone he trusted just kicked his puppy. Dean gave an internal sigh before knocking his elbow into his brother’s arm. “You’d be good as an owner, Sam.” A teasing glint danced in his green eyes. “Although, you need some work as a dancer. Your hip rotations are still balls.”

With a dry laugh, Sam punched his brother in the arm. “Jerk.”

“Bitch.” He answered automatically, fondness softening the insult as he started up his baby and sped off to their club.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you! Yeah, you!! Thank you for taking time to read this and sticking with it until the end. :) Like what you're reading? Great! We'll have another chapter up soon for your enjoyment. Comments are welcome (sometimes, even two pairs of eyes aren't enough to catch everything)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, there is betrayal, internal conflict, and a pair of leather pants.

“And, voilà! It is done,” Gabriel announced, capping the eyeliner with a dramatic click, “You may now check your fine self out.”

Hesitantly, Castiel turned to face the mirror. He was genuinely afraid of what he’d find once he did. There had been one too many instances in the past for him to feel truly at ease in his brothers’ cosmetic care.

He had to say that he was pleasantly surprised. It wasn’t anything extreme, which was nice. The eyeliner was a little much, but he could get rid of that when Gabriel wasn’t looking. His hair was mussed in a just-woke-up sort of way that his fingers itched to fix. Balthazar had insisted that he take off his tie and unbutton the top two buttons of his white shirt. Castiel had begrudgingly obliged and was startled by how naked he thought he looked. It was unsettling.

“I… don’t feel comfortable with this.”

Gabriel sighed. “Look, kid, if you wear your normal getup, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb. We may be ‘exclusive’ here at SPN, but we’re not that exclusive.”

“Speaking of your normal getup, take off those godforsaken slacks,” Balthazar interjected, a note of pure horror in his voice, “They do absolutely nothing for the aesthetic pleasantries of your backside.”

Castiel flushed to his hairline, thoroughly flustered by the attention. He curved in on himself self-consciously, unable to find an appropriate response. Gabriel, on the other hand, looked contemplative as he shamelessly appraised his younger brother.

“Yeah, those are definitely going to have to go, little bro.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but we are,” Balthazar answered dryly, pointedly ignoring the frantic look in Castiel’s baby blues, “You may as well flaunt what you have, Cassie, and you have the kind of arse that would look positively edible in leather.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel chimed in, “You’d have everyone in the house wrapped around your little finger in no time flat.”

Mortified, Castiel struggled for words. His mouth opened and closed several times before he managed to squeak out, “Th-that’s… more attention than I’m comfortable with.”

“Don’t we have a pair that would be perfect for him back here?”

Balthazar tapped his lip thoughtfully. “You know, I believe we do.”

“But--” To Castiel’s dismay, his brothers began rifling through their stage outfit pieces despite his protests, digging through chests and thumbing through racks with intense focus. He straightened his shoulders and set his jaw. Hopefully, he could end the matter by putting his foot down. “Even if you find them, I won’t wear them.”

“Yes, you will,” the older two intoned unanimously, neither one looking up as they hunted through their things. Pure dread rushed through him when Balthazar produced the leather monstrosities with a triumphant flourish.

“I am not putting those on,” Castiel reiterated firmly, an edge of panic in his voice.

Gabriel cocked his head, a calculating look on his face. “I think you will.”

“I think you’re mistaken.”

He sighed. “Okay, okay, you don’t have to.” His face was deathly serious, but his amber eyes glittered. “But there’s someone that works here you could talk to for your editing research.”

Uneasily, Castiel glanced between his brothers. “Why would I have to wear those to talk to him?”

Balthazar huffed in annoyance. “Are you daft? You have to blend in with the crowd to get near him. It’s not like you can just waltz into someplace like this wearing whatever you bloody well please.”

“But those?”

“Look, you’re going to have to trust us on this, Cassie,” Gabriel chided gently, “We’re just trying to help you out.”

No one moved for a few long seconds. The air was heavy with tension and mounting curiosity, neither side willing to back down. In the end, Castiel’s sense of obligation won out over his tenacity. Grudgingly, he took the damned pants, his brothers sharing a conspiratorial grin as he turned his back to change.

///

Dean finished taking inventory behind the bar with a satisfied smile. They were fully stocked tonight, with plenty of replacement bottles on hand. He dusted each one until the glass shone like starlight and had just begun polishing the countertop when he heard the telltale footsteps.

“Hello, Rapunzel,” Crowley drawled in his odd, slightly grating voice.

It definitely grated on Dean’s nerves. “Hey.”

“How are we this evening?”

“Fine,” he answered warily, watching the short creep out of the corner of his eye, “What can I do you for?”

“Are you familiar with the new club that opened up?”

Startled, he straightened up to look his boss in the eye. “The Pit? What about it?”

"Well, apparently the Hell hole has curb appeal.” Crowley twisted his ring absently. Dean’s eyebrows shot up. It was a nervous tic, something he only did when something was about to go to shit. And if the look on his face was anything to go by, it was about to head that way real quick. “Adam just called and quit, claiming greener grasses.”

“Adam jumped ship?” Dean demanded in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me! He loved the club as much as Dad did. Why would he leave?”

Crowley shrugged in his world-weary sort of way. “Your guess is as good as mine. I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t have it. Said the manager was making it well worth his while.”

“Something doesn’t feel right about this,” Dean grumbled under his breath, scrubbing a palm harshly across his forehead, “I’ll see if I can talk some sense into him.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” A frown creased Crowley’s face as he checked his watch. “It’ll have to be later rather than sooner, though. Doors open in ten.” He hesitated before giving the rugged brunet beauty a critical once-over. “I’m going to call Kevin or Charlie and see if there’s any way they can fill in. Would you be willing to do one of your routines if they can’t make it?”

Dean paused, rag freezing against the countertop as he weighed his options. He loved dancing, but he was trying to get away from it. Stripping was a pretty short-term, one-way job. He really wanted to do something more long-term. Something that he could do for forty or fifty years, and getting sucked back in now… “I don’t know.”

Crowley seemed to sense his conflict and caved. “What if I told you that I’d pay you for the bar shift and for the time you spend onstage?”

“Seriously? You’d pay me double?”

“Plus whatever they tip you for the show. Scout’s honor.”

Dean laughed dryly, running a hand through his hair. “You sure know how to sweeten the deal.”

“Tell anyone, and I will deny it with my dying breath.” Crowley twisted his ring a few more times, obviously displeased. “I wouldn’t be asking if I had another option.”

“Yeah, you aren’t really the begging type.” He sighed, letting his shoulders droop in defeat. “If you really can’t get Charlie or Kevin in, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” he answered tersely, straightening his tie and smoothing his lapels as if to rid himself of the whole unpleasant situation. “Now. Let the night begin.”

Dean barely repressed a scowl. The dude may be paying him, but he could still be a creep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaaay, two chapters down! Apologies for the brevity, but this is almost purely a stage-setting chapter. More fun in the chapters to come! ;D
> 
> As per usual, thanks for sticking it out with us. Comments are welcome (we may not catch everything; let us know if you see something!), and we'll be back with another chapter next week. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is just getting going on his research, and his brothers know just the man he should talk to.

After dispensing some sound clubbing advice, Gabriel and Balthazar shoved their artfully ruffled, wide-eyed brother into the club’s excited clamor. Castiel was immediately swept up in a wave of scantily-clad, glitter-dusted people as they rushed into the dim space, talking and laughing boisterously. Hands and elbows jockeyed for room, occasionally bumping or brushing (or _squeezing_ ) something they shouldn’t.

This was _leagues_ outside Castiel’s comfort zone.

Most of the mob rushed into the center of the big, airy space to dance, leaving little clusters of people to congregate at the tables and booths that skirted the edges of the dance floor. Lights flashed and shimmied along with the mass of bodies, blinding the dark haired darling. He scrubbed his eyes with his fists, willing them to adjust more quickly to the dim lighting. It wasn’t until he saw the black smears that he remembered Gabriel had put eyeliner on him. Annoyed, he swiped around his eyes, hoping that he’d gotten all of it off as he scanned the room. Balthazar had told him that the guy he should talk to would be at the bar in the loft…

A pretty girl in a fluorescent pink tank top sauntered up to him, her white ruffled skirt hitching up almost indecently high. Castiel’s eyes immediately darted up, staying fixed on her kind, oval-shaped face and springy blonde curls.

“Hi, welcome to SPN.” She spoke clearly over the pounding bass, offering a neat, professionally manicured hand. “I’m Jo Harvelle.”

Hesitantly, he took it. “Castiel,” he answered in a half-shout. Her grip was firm, the handshake almost businesslike in it’s efficiency.

“Pleasure. This your first time here?”

He blinked, then gave her a sheepish look. “Is it that obvious?”

Jo smiled radiantly. “You look like a deer in headlights. Don’t worry,” she interjected when his forehead crumpled in distress, “Everyone does their first time in. Can I answer any questions for you?”

Castiel felt himself relax. The girl’s frank warmth was extremely comforting in the frenetic atmosphere. He liked her almost immediately. “I am looking for the bartender who works in the loft.”

“Cool. Come with me.” She set off at a brisk pace, and he scurried after her. Her well-worn leather boots could be heard over the music as it turned into something slower and mellower. “We call this part of the club the Mosh Pit,” she explained, gesturing toward the packed dance floor, “It can get a little wild out there once everyone’s good and drunk.” She pointed to a metal spiral staircase in the back corner. “That’s the quickest way to get up to the part we call the Loft.” Castiel could hear the capital letter now as she explained. “It’s not the best way to go once the Mosh Pit’s in full swing, so you’ll wanna wait it out for a bit if the manager closes the door. It’s a big, red monstrosity, you can’t miss it.”

Castiel thanked her for her help. She gave him one more friendly smile before turning and sashaying back across the floor, boots clicking and skirt swishing vivaciously. He turned his back as she disappeared among the gyrating bodies, straightening his shoulders decisively as he marched off to learn what he could from the bartender.

///

It was a damn slow night to be manning a bar. Most of the folks hanging around the Loft were regulars, with a few new brokenhearted drunkards thrown in. A small bachelorette party was in full swing off in the most private corner, but they were here for the show, not so much the booze, if their round of sodas was any indication. Dean sighed. He half hoped that Kevin and Charlie were busy. At least then he’d be doing _something_ tonight… besides re-polishing the countertop for the hundredth time. Idly, he thought through his routines. He would have to do something that was just moderately sexy. The better he danced, the more people would request him, and then Crowley would put him on the schedule to keep the masses happy. A frown pinched his eyebrows together. No, he didn’t want that. There was good money in it, sure, but stripping wasn’t the end goal. He wanted something he could brag to people about. And as long as Sam was good on his word, pretty soon Dean would be bragging about owning the hottest nightclub in the state of Kansas...

Something wasn’t right. Dean paused mid-swipe, straining his ears. It didn’t take him long to realize that it was the _lack_ of sound drawing his attention. He scanned the room, his eyes falling upon the eerily silent bachelorette table. All five of them were ogling someone near the door, their eyes wide and mouths agape. Curious, he followed their collective gaze.

The bolt of lust that gripped him nearly took him to his knees. The dark haired guy in the doorway was _hot_. Tense, and maybe a little unsure, but definitely smokin’. His white shirt was unbuttoned just far enough to reveal a tempting slice of skin, and the pants. Dean had a months worth of fantasy explode in his mind just about those curve-huggers, let alone the hot thing they were packaging. The dark-haired beauty hesitated before setting his shoulders and marching in, his movements stiff and a bit robotic.

That actually killed Dean’s buzz a little bit. He looked like a man staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. A bone-weary sigh slipped out of the bartender. The dude was probably just another bleeding heart, or maybe he was looking to wind down after a tough breakup. In his experience, tension wasn’t a very encouraging sign. Not even those sexy leather pants could console mini-Dean as the blue-eyed beauty took a seat up at the bar.

Still, maybe he was just an SPN virgin. Though he loved the place dearly, even he could admit that the first go at it could be a little unnerving. Perking up at the thought, he stepped into his ‘friendly bartender’ persona and swaggered up to the new guy.

“Hey, there, handsome,” he flirted, showing off his most dazzling smile, “What can I get you?”

The guy swallowed, his eyes widening in shock. The barest hint of dark, messy eyeliner coupled with a kiss of a faint, pinkish blush had mini-Dean interested once again.

“I-I don’t normally drink,” he stammered, the color in his cheeks darkening a few shades. Dean’s insides clenched with want as the guy’s tongue peeked out to lick his lips. “What would you recommend?”

 _Me._ “Probably should start with beer,” he heard himself say, his voice a pitch or two lower than normal, “It won’t taste very good, but that way you won’t be inclined to overdo it.” He leaned against the countertop, letting his tie swing forward and the buttons on his shirt strain suggestively. The pretty guy proceeded to undo each one with his eyes, those brilliant blue irises following the neat trail straight down to the band of Dean’s slacks. Abruptly, he snapped his attention away, as if he’d just realized what he’d been thinking about. His face was now blazing in the most delectable shade of red. _Bingo_.

“Okay,” the man acquiesced quietly, a slight tremor in his voice. Dean just barely restrained a smile. He’d set this one up just right, and now it was time to execute his master plan.

“Awesome,” Dean rumbled, shooting the dark-haired man a wink, “First one’s on me.” He turned around and bent to get into the little fridge beneath the wine shelf, making sure his ass would be blatantly on display. The strangled noise that came from the other side of the counter made him grin. For the first time tonight, he was actually _excited_ about the potential opportunity to take off his clothes onstage. If it meant seducing this little number, he was totally in. He righted himself, popping the cap off the beer and offering it with a charming grin and a wink. “Cheers, gorgeous.”

The black-haired beauty’s face was flushed, his irises eclipsed by pupil. He was visibly trembling as he reached out and wrapped his long, lean fingers around the perspiring glass. His lips pursed as he brought the bottle up to them. They curved themselves around the opening as he took a tentative sip. A look of mild distaste wrinkled his cute little button nose.

Damn, that was really hot. Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s an acquired taste.” Castiel nodded seriously, his dark eyebrows pinching together as he took another measured sip. Dean chewed on his lip. _Shit, that’s a really cute expression, too._ “So. You got a name?”

“Castiel,” he mumbled quietly, his eyes darting between the beer and Dean’s face.

“Castiel,” Dean repeated sensually, letting his tongue caress the name. The scarlet flush crept down that lovely neck and that lovely wedge of exposed chest. He wanted to follow it with the tip of his tongue.

“What, uh… w-what is yours?”

Oh, man, he wanted to hear that nervous stammer somewhere more private. Maybe where he could turn them into something louder and more carnal. “Dean,” he answered, his voice pitched low and a little rough as he offered out a hand, “Dean Winchester.”

“Dean?”

He just barely prevented himself from biting down on his lip. That voice was going to be the death of him, he was sure. “That’s me,” he answered, with a sultry smile, “Nice to meet you, Castiel.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” It was a reflexive response, Dean could tell, but that didn’t make the shaky rumble any less appealing.

God, he needed to get laid. And he was going to make damn sure he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please do the thing, Dean!_ We're about halfway to the show! *throws confetti* Yaaaaaay!
> 
> As always, thank you for sticking with us all the way to the end. Comments are appreciated (we try really hard, but sometimes... we miss stuff. Let us know!) :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds out he's got one on the line, and Castiel is completely clueless.

Castiel was floundering. He knew he was doing this for Chuck, and that his brothers thought the bartender could help him out, but they hadn’t told him he would be so… aesthetically pleasing. It was utterly distracting. As if to prove it, Dean leaned toward him, chin balanced in one palm, brilliant green eyes sparkling. He had to resist the sudden, impulsive urge to grip the beautiful brunet by the tie and—

“So, what brings a stud like you to SPN?”’

He flinched, ripping himself out of his indecent thoughts. “S-sorry, what?”

Dean grinned, the skin around his eyes crinkling in a pleasant way. “Your focus needs more focus.”

“I… don’t understand that reference,” he admitted quietly.

Dean laughed. It was a pleasant bass sound, deep enough that Castiel could _feel_ _it_ in his chest. Or maybe that was his heart battling against his ribs. It was hard to be sure. Either way, the feeling wasn’t at all disagreeable.

“Never mind,” he snickered, “I was wondering what brought you out tonight.” Dean’s eyes darted down to stare at the triangle of skin that his shirt left exposed. For the first time that night, he felt a bit of gratitude toward his brothers and their meddling. “Handsome fella like you must have to beat people off of you with a stick.”

He felt his cheeks begin to burn even more, and he worried that the color was beginning to skate into unattractive hues. “I… it’s for… no.”

“No?”

Embarrassed, he dropped his gaze to his barely-touched beer. “I don’t normally go out, especially not to… places like this.”

“Dens of inequity?” Dean supplied, throwing in a sultry leer.

Castiel blinked, unsure. Flirting wasn’t something he was familiar with, and he certainly didn’t know how to reciprocate the attention. “Y-yeah,” he squeaked, trying to reign in his thoughts. Chuck was counting on him to give good advice on his work. He needed to make inquiries and gather quality information. “Uh… how long have you worked here?”

“Since SPN first opened her doors to the public,” he answered with proud warmth as he tucked his polishing rag into his back pocket, “Dad was the one who founded it.”

Castiel blinked. “This is your family’s business?”

“Yeah. It was actually Mom’s idea.” Dean laughed at his bemused expression, that bass sound rumbling through him in the most pleasant way. “Don’t look so surprised, man. She was ‘a lady with needs.’” He made dramatic air quotes, and Castiel couldn’t resist cracking a smile.

“She sounds interesting.”

Dean’s expression fell a bit, a hint of fond melancholy edging into his eyes. Castiel had the immediate urge to apologize, but the brunet just murmured, “Yeah. She really was.”

“Was?”

He shrugged, but there was something tense about the motion. “She passed away when I was a kid.”

Castiel could feel the blood drain out of his face as he realized that he’d made yet another social faux pas. “Dean, I apologize, I didn’t mean--”

“Hey, no worries. I’ve had time, I’ve come to terms with it.” Dean smiled reassuringly, but there was something about it that seemed a bit flat. “You didn’t know. It’s fine.”

An awkward silence fell between them. Castiel took a sip from his beer bottle, wincing as the alcohol burned the back of his throat. His thoughts spun wildly as he tried to think of something safer to talk about, his lips tilting down as his fingers idly tracing patterns on his dewy bottle. Another swallow of booze brought some inspiration. “If you don’t mind my asking… is it difficult to work in a place that reminds you of her?”

Dean hesitated for a beat, a look of intense discomfort on his face, but it was short lived. He shot Castiel another warm, flirtatious grin. “Sorry, you probably get this all the time, but you look hot when you frown. It’s a little distracting.”

The abrupt shift in subject had color flooding back to his face in full force, and he prayed that he didn’t do something embarrassing. Like having his voice crack or falling off his stool. “I-I’ve never…”

“That’s pretty cute, too.” Dean reached out and stroked his cheek gingerly with the backs of his fingers. Castiel sucked in a sharp breath, his nerves sparking deliciously at the feather-light pressure. “Your skin’s so smooth,” Dean mused, his eyes darkening when Castiel let out a soft, involuntary noise, “And hot.” He turned his hand over to cup the heated skin.

Castiel struggled for words, distracted by the weight of Dean’s hand. It was broad, a little rough, and it fit perfectly against his face. He kind of liked the feel of it resting there.

“Dean,” a man called out. The brunet pulled his hand away. Okay, Castiel really liked it, and he wanted it back. He may or may not have made a noise of protest and tried to follow it. And Dean may or may not have shot him a cheeky wink before turning to a short man with dark, thinning hair. Castiel felt an immediate distaste for him.

“Crowley,” he greeted, then frowned, “Kevin and Charlie?”

“Studying and at one of those godforsaken conventions in Seattle.”

Castiel was completely lost, but Dean seemed resignedly excited. “Well, I’ll see what I can do.” He turned his smoldering green eyes back to Castiel. “It seems I’m needed elsewhere.”

An illogical feeling of disappointment washed through him. “Oh. I see.”

“Tell you what,” he murmured, crossing his arms on the counter and leaning on them, “Take one of the seats near the stage, check out the show, and wait for me. I’ll come get you at the end of the performance, and we can chat a bit more. Sound good?”

Castiel swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry. He nodded stiffly, trying to look confident and sure.

Dean beamed. “Awesome.” He cupped Castiel’s cheek again, letting his thumb brush against his lower lip. He had to resist the urge to run his tongue against the calloused pad. “Don’t go anywhere, beautiful,” Dean rumbled, stroking Castiel’s lip once more before pulling away and sauntering off with Crowley.

Castiel was so, so, _so_ screwed.

///

Dean was on top of the world. He was practically bouncing backstage, whistling a tune under his breath and fussing with his hair. It had been _ages_ since he’d been so eager to put on an outfit and give a show. He loved to tempt and tease, but his favorite thing to do was seduce, and now he had a captive audience. Pretty literally, too. The poor, gorgeous thing looked like he’d been hit by a cement truck. Obviously, Castiel wasn’t used to that level of attention, but he’d been more than willing, if his reaction to the face touching was anything to go by. He’d looked like he was about to crawl over the bar and jump him then and there. Dean cut his whistling off with an anticipatory smile. He was _definitely_ gonna get laid.

Crowley looked mildly disgusted, but strangely satisfied. He was going to have four performers, so Dean figured he was happy enough not to comment on his lack of professionalism. He was dancing tonight anyway, so what did it matter if he got in a bit of strategic (and unplanned) foreplay? It would make everything go a lot smoother for him later on.

Crowley slunk off to do whatever it was that creepy short guys do as Dean slipped through the dressing hall and into the backstage area. The first song was just announced, and the music kicked off as Dean swaggered into the darkened space, the bass thumping comfortably through his body as he hunted for the tech guy.

“Bobby?” He called out softly and was rewarded with a quick flash of a laser pointer. With a wide grin, he jogged over. Bobby Singer was a family friend, a damn good man, and a wizard behind a control panel. Without him and Jo, SPN probably wouldn’t be anywhere near as efficient as it was. “Hey, Bobby. Who’s up?”

“Gabriel,” he answered gruffly, fiddling with a dial before turning his full attention on Dean, “What can I do you for, kid?”

“I’m filling in tonight.”

Bobby shot him a puzzled look. “You? Thought you were trying to get away from all this.” He waved toward the stage, before reaching over and twisting a dial almost automatically.

Dean sighed. “I know, but there wasn’t anyone else to cover. Besides, Crowley’s paying me double for dancing.”

“The guy really knows how to sweeten the pot.”

“You got that right,” he laughed, rubbing his hands together, “Anyway, I need a song.”

He nodded, a sarcastic lilt to his voice. “Yeah, that would be helpful. So, whatcha thinkin’? The usual?”

Dean hesitated, then offered up a huge, shit-eating grin. “Nah. I want the song.”

“ _The_ song?” Bobby stared at him. “Are you an idjit?”

“According to you, yeah.”

He huffed in his grumpy, affectionate-parent sort of way. “Listen, kid, if you don’t wanna be the closer every night until you die, then you’d better pick a different song. You know that one’s your strongest performance piece.”

“You think I’ll be handsome enough to be stripping until I die?” Dean batted his long, dark eyelashes. “Aww, Bobby Singer, you’re such a sweetheart.”

“Will you think with your upstairs head for once and concentrate?”

He laughed. “I know, I know, that wasn’t the point. I just… I’ve got one on the line.” With assured ease, he shrugged. “I’m just hoping I can use my skills to seal the deal.”

“That’s already more than I wanted to know,” Bobby groused, twisting another dial as the little gaggle of people squealed and applauded, “I’ll put you down for the song, kid, but don’t come bitchin’ to me if Crowley decides to make you a regular.”

Dean flicked the bill of Bobby’s ball cap affectionately. “You’re the man.”

“Damn straight,” he growled, straightening his hat. His chest puffed a little with pride, giving him away just before his face softened just a bit. “Knock ‘em dead.”

“Rapunzel.”

“Jesus!” Dean almost jumped out of his skin. He whirled around to find Crowley standing right behind him. “Give a guy some warning, would ya?”

“As much as I hate to break up this heartwarming family moment, you’ll want to get dressed.” He looked mildly vexed about even having to ask, the complete and utter bastard. “You’re performing after Moose, so you’re last tonight.”

“You know, we do have names.”

“Yes. Most people do.”

_Arrogant ass_. Dean crossed his arms in annoyance and just barely holding back a scowl.“Yeah, okay. Where can I find my—”

“The Moose’s closet,” he interrupted, turning on his heel and stalking toward his office, “Or the storage room, as I call it.”

Dean scowled. The guy might be writing his paycheck, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t an arrogant approximation of a human being.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case I've made it ambiguous, Dean doesn't like Crowley. Y'know, the usual love-hate thing they get going. ;)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! As this week is the last week before my finals, I can't guarantee how much I'll get done. (I'll be relying on Benny a LOT!) We should be able to get out a new chapter next week anyway, but what comes after might be a little more spread out. We'll do our best to remain consistent! :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel learns that Dean is more than just a pretty bartender, and Dean knows _exactly_ what he's doing.

Castiel sat where Dean had instructed, his eyes darting around nervously. He had never been to a… show like this before, and he wasn’t really sure what to expect. Try as they might, neither of his brothers had ever been able to force him out to ‘take in the atmosphere,’ and Castiel quickly found himself looking to the others in the room for social cues.

The crowd was chattering excitedly in the charged environment. Even the men seemed eager to get the show going. He had to admit, their excitement was palpable, but he didn’t feel like he was as engaged in the proceedings. His mind wandered off as soon as Gabriel strutted up onto the stage, earning himself a chorus of squeals and cheers.

Castiel could still feel the weight of the beautiful brunet’s hand on his face, and the rhythmic brush of his thumb against his lip. The mere thought of it brought an echo of his earlier blushes back. He mused about his unreal, emerald green eyes and honey-toned skin, and how badly he had wanted to grip that perfect man by the collar of his pristine shirt and—

A wild whoop went up from the crowd, jerking Castiel out of his thoughts. Gabriel was dragging one of the giggly women onstage, her friends laughing and yelling raucously as he tugged her into a chair. She went reluctantly, hiding her pink face as the noise ramped up.

That snapped his attention to the crowd. They appeared to be enthralled—even a spattering of men seemed completely beguiled by his brother’s stage presence, and Castiel almost smiled, thinking about how pleased with himself Gabriel would be for pulling in some of the men. Another rowdy cheer erupted, along with some whistles and few catcalls. He decided that it would probably be better not to look. A case of simple curiosity wasn’t worth his mental health. There had been too many close calls in the past, and he definitely didn’t want to risk seeing something he didn’t need to.

Instead, he let himself go back to thinking about the bartender. He was handsome and flirty and so far out of Castiel’s assumed league that it was laughable. On the proverbial scale, Dean was—at the very least—a twelve. On the other hand, Balthazar had informed his little brother that he was only a five. (“Maybe a six, but that seems to be pushing it.”) Knowing that, it should be inconceivable that such beautiful man even _looked_ in his direction, let alone flirted.

And yet, he had. Castiel swallowed reflexively, his throat drying out at the very thought. If he hadn’t seen his pupils dilate for himself, he might not have even believed that it happened. It could have been a trick of the light, or he might be really good at thinking the right things to sell his act, but Castiel wanted to believe it, whether or not it was an outright fabrication. The self-doubt and disbelief was there, of course. No one ever flirted with him and didn’t end up taking a swing at some part of his body.He just hoped that this was going to be different.

The crowd screamed and clapped madly, Crowley’s voice announcing Gabriel’s departure. Castiel blinked in horrified surprise as his eldest brother swanned dramatically onto the stage, wearing little more than a bathrobe and a thong. He quickly averted his eyes and resisted the urge to throw up. Yes, they were all boys, and yes, they grew up together, but he could have gone his whole life without knowing the exact shape of his brother’s nether regions. Using his hand closest to the stage as a blinder, he scanned the audience. About half of the men seemed to lose interest, but Balthazar was mainly into women anyway. It was probably part of his design. Otherwise, those that were still paying attention seemed just as absorbed as they had been during Gabriel’s.

A thought struck Castiel as Balthazar danced through his number. Dean had left the bar unmanned. Frowning, he turned… only to see Jo working behind the counter. Her gold curls were now tamed into a low ponytail that swung like a pendulum as she mixed up a tray of multi-hued drinks. His frown intensified. He didn’t understand much about bars, but he was pretty sure that most bartenders didn’t just up and leave their posts, no matter what the manager said. Thinking back to the exchange he had witnessed between Crowley and Dean, he wondered what that strange man had needed Dean’s help for. Hopefully, Castiel would get an opportunity to ask about it after the show.

As Crowley’s voice indicated Balthazar’s exit, there was a frenetic uproar that had Castiel hesitantly peeking at the stage. There was a towering mass of man standing dead center, his plaid shirt undone and untucked from his tight jeans. Castiel narrowed his eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but he couldn’t quite place it. The music kicked up, and he felt the sudden urge to avert his eyes. It wasn’t that the brown-haired guy on stage wasn’t attractive. It was just that… he seemed uncomfortable. He couldn’t quite pin it down, but he could sense an underlying feeling of unease. He watched the gathering some more to see if they also sensed it. Only a couple of men were still paying attention, but the women were all pink-cheeked with delight. Their sounds were less boisterous and more cooing, as if the gigantic man was a tiny kitten fussing with a ball of yarn. Castiel frowned, sneaking a quick peek at him.

The edge of discomfort was still there, but it seemed duller now. There was rhythm in his motions, and his aura of youthful innocence seemed to target a very specific group. Castiel glanced back at the remaining people, taking them in critically. Almost all of the women seemed at least a little interested, but the men that hung in there seemed young themselves. There was a bit of hesitance to their posture, as if they weren’t sure whether to join the fray of women or run for the door. One of them—the one with silver snakebites—seemed more inclined to stay, but the other—the one with the beanie and thumbnail-sized gages—looked ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Castiel’s eyebrows pinched together in concentration, his mind trying hard to draw connections between the two young men and the assortment of women.

The dancer stepped into the audience, plucking out the youngest woman and the guy with the silver snakebites. Everyone whooped as Castiel attempted to make a hypothesis about his choices. Both appeared to be the youngest in their peer group, and they both blushed a frightening shade when they were pulled, but other than that, they appeared to be opposites. She was bold and eager to get a little handsy, whereas he folded in on himself, pressing his hands between his thighs and rounding his shoulders defensively. Castiel frowned, lowering his gaze as soon as the brown-haired dancer began shedding layers. Maybe he had a preference for younger patrons? It seemed logical, but there wasn’t any way to know for sure without asking, and he wasn’t really very keen on the idea of talking to a stripper about his particular inclinations. Even _he_ knew that would be crossing a very distinct line.

Idly, he wondered what Dean preferred. Dark hair, light hair, curvy, scrawny, tall, short, female…male? A harsh, ugly little voice in the back of his head reared up and whispered  _female, top-heavy, curvaceous, blonde._ Castiel fought it back mercilessly. He wouldn’t allow himself to ruin the first good night he’d had in months with negativity. He frowned, forcing out the tiny sliver of doubt that had begun to wedge it’s way into his thoughts and poison them. There was no way he was letting anything take away the glow of the attention at the bar and stain it with uncertainty. Maybe Dean was like that with everyone, but maybe it was just for him. Maybe he didn’t think of Castiel as a social misfit. He hoped so, because—for the first time in _years_ —he wasn’t looking to go straight back home after this outing. Actually, he was hoping he didn’t go home at all…

A microphone crackled to life. Castiel looked up in surprise to see Gabriel onstage with a huge grin on his face. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My apologies, but Adam couldn’t make it out tonight.” There was a chorus of disappointed noises, but they stopped when Gabriel held up a comforting hand. “I know many of you are upset, but we have a real treat for you tonight. Everyone, make some noise for SPN’s very own… Doctor Sexy.”

Castiel almost fell out of his chair when _Dean_ stepped out onto the stage. Everyone in the room drew a collective breath. He was still wearing his black pants and shirt with the blue tie, but he had added a crisp white lab coat to the ensemble. A pair of modern, rectangular glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, framing his mischievously twinkling eyes. There was an air of professionalism that he seemed to wear like a second skin. He smiled, totally at ease up on the stage as he took in the gobsmacked audience.

His gaze fell upon Castiel, and their eyes locked. Dean shot him a cocky, lopsided grin and winked before swanning over to the chair on center stage.

_Well. That’s interesting._

///

Everything about this was second nature to Dean, especially the stage. This was something he could do—and _did_ do—very, very well. The usual urge to conquer was taking root inside of him. It was a fierce, no holds barred, leave nothing behind, take no prisoners kind of feeling that was beginning to pump adrenaline into every cell he had. He was hungry in a way he hadn’t been in a long while. And damn anyone who thought he wasn’t going to get what he wanted.

He turned the center stage chair until the back faced the audience and threw a leg over it. He settled himself into the black leather cushion before nodding to Bobby. It was time to get this show on the road. He had things to do, and a dark-haired beauty to seduce.

Doctor, Doctor kicked off, the drumbeat thumping along the floorboards, accompanied by an excited murmur that swept through the crowd. Dean just barely repressed a smile. This was his moment, and he was gonna take it in both hands and run as far away as he could with it. Hopefully, he’d have a passenger in tow.

His hips moved almost unconsciously to the beat, gyrating in tantalizing circlets as the coat starts to slip off his shoulders. The ladies started giggling, but Dean couldn’t help peeking at the gorgeous number he’d been chatting up at the bar. Castiel looked like he was having trouble wrapping his head around what he was seeing. And keeping his eyes inside his head. He was completely rigid in his seat, a pretty blush blooming along his cheeks. Full of self-assured confidence, Dean shot him his best come-on smile and winked as Robert Palmer began crooning about hot summer nights. With expert flair, he rolled his body, the jacket sliding toward the floor until he hooked it with his fingers. He whipped it around himself, draping it artfully on the back of the chair before leaning against it and scanning the room, trying to ‘find his baby.’ There was a collective cry from the women, and even a few men seemed to drift close in wonder. He snuck another sly glance at Castiel as he loosened his tie, letting it rest—undone—beneath his collar. The poor thing looked like a cornered mouse, all big eyes and shallow breaths. Dean kinda thought it was endearing. And hot, but mostly endearing.

Without breaking eye contact, he stood up straight, plucking his shirt buttons open with practiced ease. Castiel’s eyes darted down to watch the show, his pupils dilating with every inch of bared chest. The skin over his knuckles was bone white, straining from their resting place against his knees. Dean licked his lower lip, following up the motion with a slow drag of teeth as he unbuttoned his cuffs. He wanted to launch himself off the stage and make a mess of that dark hair, mar the pristine expanses of skin that hid under those clothes…

Rob started pleading with his doctor and Dean slipped off his glasses, tucking them into his breast pocket before pulling on the end of his tie firmly, like whoever was on the receiving end of his attention was in a hell of a lot of trouble. The ladies swooned and the men swallowed, a shower of bills fluttering onto the stage. His object of desire clapped a hand over his mouth, lust and embarrassment mixing evenly on his face. Dean held his gaze as he neatly folded his tie in half before clamping it between his teeth. He let his black shirt slither to the floor. Castiel’s eyes scoured his bare chest. Dean swore he was trying to memorize it as his hand fell limply into his lap, tongue passing over his lips nervously. Honestly, Dean would be lying if he said he didn’t want to hop down there and put that pretty pink thing to better use.

With the cheekiest look he could muster, he pressed one hand over his heart and the other just below his sternum before sliding that one down his stomach suggestively as Rob wailed to his doctor about a bad case of lovin’.

_“Fuck.”_

Dean could see Castiel’s lips shape the word, curling around it as his face shot through four shades of scarlet. Dammit if that was sexy as hell, but now he wanted to _hear_ it. He didn’t care if it was whispered or sobbed brokenly or screamed, but he wanted it all to himself. And he wanted it _badly_.

He draped the tie back around his neck before popping the button on his slacks, grateful that he’d decided to wear his looser pair today. It would make the next step that much easier. He cocked his hips forward and slid the zipper down with agonizing slowness as the rapt gathering drew in a collective breath. Dean couldn’t stop the grin before it spread across his face. This was his favorite part. He started swinging his hips in wide, lazy circles, letting the fabric hitch down his hips in miniscule increments. An excited rush of whistles and whispers and squeals went up around the room. He knew he had them where he wanted them. He moved a bit faster, the waistband shimmying over his hipbones and catching for a moment on the band of his underwear before slipping down to show off just a few inches of black lace.

The Loft went silent as Rob explained that ‘cute’ and ‘shy’ weren’t really descriptors for him. Dean shot the audience an arrogant, boyish grin. One of the bachelorette girls almost fell out of her chair in a full-on faint as he raised his arms over his head, grabbed one wrist, and hip-shimmied his pants off. There was a beat of dead silence as he stepped out of them, showing off the sheer stockings and lace garters that hugged his legs, coupled with the lingerie. The dead air was short-lived. Wails of shocked delight erupted from the audience, and he couldn’t keep himself from preening under the attention. Showing off—‘peacocking,’ Sam called it—was something he knew how to use to his advantage. He swung his hips, pirouetting in slow motion to give everyone a good view. Raucous cheers almost drowned out the song entirely, but Dean only had eyes for one reaction.

Castiel looked stricken, and Dean swore he could feel the embarrassed, hot-and-bothered heat radiating off of his face from the stage. His hands were fisted in his lap, knuckles bone-white with strain and—hopefully—poorly controlled impulse. Something about it made him look even more disheveled. Dean winked, sliding his palms up the backs of his strong thighs until they rested firmly against his shapely backside. Castiel’s Adam’s apple bobbed, his knuckles blanching impossibly whiter as Dean’s fingers dug in, massaging just a bit before sliding away to snatch up his lab coat and slip it back on. It was time to play some serious hardball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE! :D Dean dances a little next chapter, but otherwise... ~~TA-DAAA!~~ *throws glitter* Did we meet expectations? 
> 
> As always, please let us know if there are any continuity things, things we should double-check on, or even if you just want to say hi! We would love to hear from you! 
> 
> Thanks to all of you for reading and making us feel important. We appreciate every single one of you so much!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean decides to take matters into his own hands. Castiel approves. (And so does the audience!)

Castiel had never been so embarrassed and confused and aroused in his life. He was trying to observe this clinically—as Chuck’s characters had—but he found himself getting worked up despite his efforts. His blood seemed to want to either flood his face or pool low in his belly, and it didn’t help matters when Dean stared at him like a starved man would eye a thick, juicy hamburger. Those playful green eyes would skate over the crowd and as soon as they sought him out, he would grin, and then Castiel would have to make a conscious effort to stay in his seat. That effort had to be doubled once those cheeky winks started to make appearances. Once the clothes had started falling away, he had to clasp his hands together and dig his fingernails into his knuckles to keep himself grounded. Now that Dean was only outfitted in lace lingerie, Castiel didn’t know how long he could keep himself in check.

Dean stepped down from the stage, his lab coat billowing behind him like a pair of white angel’s wings. All at once, people were jockeying to get their hands on him, handfuls of bills clenched in their fists. Castiel’s heart sank. He hadn’t thought about bringing money. Hell, he had only planned on a brief period of observation before sneaking out without alerting his brothers to his absence. Reflexively, he crammed his hand into the nearly-nonexistent pocket that he had wedged his billfold in at the start of his night. Maybe he had something…

It took Castiel a moment to process what he was seeing. His usually starving wallet was now stuffed with bills. He thumbed through them in disbelief, keeping a mental tab of the amount. Three hundred and two dollars. He knew exactly where the two had come from, because that was the only money that he knew for sure was _his_. Just to be sure, he double-checked that the wallet actually belonged to him, and not to one of his brothers.

His own face stared back at him from his license, looking blank and uninterested, and everything Castiel currently wasn’t. A slip of paper poked out from behind his ID. Realization struck him as he pulled the note free, reading the hastily scribbled ‘You owe us if you screw this up, little bro!’ He immediately snapped his head up and searched out the dancer.

One of the women in the crowd was whispering in Dean’s ear, a warm smile pulling at her mouth as she spoke. An irrational burst of jealousy flared in Castiel’s chest. No, Dean wasn’t his to be jealous over. He took a deep breath, trying very hard to smother that ridiculous little fire that settled just behind his breastbone as her hand curved against his forearm. Dean leaned away from her, a shocked grin lighting his face. Castiel had to wrestle with his envy just a bit harder, fighting the flare that threatened to consume his sensibility as Dean pressed a swift kiss to her forehead. He stepped back and sauntered away from her. Castiel frowned in confusion. Admittedly, he didn’t know much about club protocol, but the other dancers had dragged the people in the crowd up onstage and given them individual attention. So far, Dean hadn’t given anyone but that girl more than ten seconds of his time, and even then it was quick.

The brunet worked his way through the crowd, giving someone here or there a brief caress and murmuring something to them, but otherwise ignored the gathering entirely. Dean made his way toward a very bemused and curious Castiel, and before he could even say anything, the gorgeous pseudo-doctor pulled him to his feet and was ushered him toward the stage. Castiel tried to dig in his heels, but that big, warm hand on the small of his back had all of his protests dying as they formed.

Dean shoved him playfully into the chair, then turned toward the girl that had whispered in his ear. “This the one you wanted to see me all over?” He pretty much shouted it, and the girl whooped in agreement as Castiel’s face burned with the sudden influx of blood. “How about the rest of you?” Dean asked loudly, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, “Whaddya think, you wanna see me get this handsome devil all worked up?” An emphatic chorus of shouts erupted from the mob, and Dean was grinning down at Castiel with such hunger that he physically shuddered. “Awesome.”

Dean stepped behind Castiel. Having him out of his field of vision was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. Fingers unexpectedly wove into his hair, pulling gently to the right, exposing the length of his throat. Castiel decided to put his trust in Dean’s more than capable hands. He allowed himself to be guided and was rewarded with a soft kiss right on the sweet spot behind his ear. Dean’s other hand began stroking down his neck. Castiel shivered.

“Are we a little ticklish, beautiful?”

“N-no,” he squeaked as those rough fingers began to sneak beneath the edges of his unbuttoned shirt. Dean’s pinky brushed his left areola, and Castiel felt the electricity of the touch all the way in the marrow of his bones.

Dean snickered. “Good thing you’re cute, ‘cause you suck at lying.”

Castiel opened his mouth to protest, but Dean pulled his head straight back and pressed their mouths together. It was brief--only a second or two long--but Castiel didn’t want it to stop. Even with the awkwardness of being pretty much upside down, it was perfect, and he wanted more. From what he could tell, the beautiful brunet would be more than happy to oblige.

///

Dean had to force himself from Castiel’s mouth. He couldn’t help grinning when that gorgeous man tried to follow. Dean’s heart gave a strange squish in his chest that he promptly smothered. Now wasn’t the time for… whatever comes after weird chest squishes.

The crowd whooped raucously. Completely startled, Castiel’s entire body froze, his blue eyes widening. Dean couldn’t stop himself from smiling down at him knowingly.

“Forget we had an audience?”

Castiel swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing even more prominently in the stretched column of his neck. “Y-yes,” he admitted quietly, flushing all the way down his chest.

Smiling dangerously, Dean swept his fingers back up to cup that lovely face. “Good. I’m doing my job right, then.”

Castiel nodded helplessly in agreement, his pupils dilating even further.

With predatory grace, Dean stalked around the chair and straddled his lap, immediately sliding his fingers against the silky smoothness of Castiel’s button up shirt. It felt expensive. _His skin probably feels better_ , Dean speculated, undulating his hips lazily against Castiel’s.

“Shit,” he breathed, his own heaving upward intuitively.

The swear wasn’t anything Dean hadn’t heard a hundred times before, but it made his blood burn just a bit hotter in his veins nonetheless. Without thought, he dropped to his knees, mouthing at the apex of Castiel’s thighs, slicking the leather as he played. Castiel choked on an expletive--fingers curling into the chair until his knuckles were a worrying shade of white--as Dean pouted internally. He wished there wasn’t a barrier between his tongue and the beautiful piece of anatomy he was sure was underneath, but he only took his exhibitionism thing so far. Dean wouldn’t have minded too much, but the club did have a reputation to maintain. Public sex? Not generally viewed as ‘classy.’

All but forgotten, the gathering was making some very encouraging sounds that seemed to go largely unnoticed by Castiel. He looked wrecked, and Dean preened slightly with the knowledge that it was his doing. With a wicked smile, he stood, pulling the dark haired beauty out of the chair. He followed willingly enough, albeit with a look of befuddled arousal that tested every ounce of Dean’s self-control. Beating back his own desire, Dean managed to get him to his knees, those lightning-sharp, brilliant blue eyes widening as he lowered himself with unwitting grace. Dean watched Castiel with a feral sort of hunger, wishing that they were alone so he could ravish every inch of him. He wanted to leave trails of bite marks and finger-shaped bruises, hear that gravelly bass voice break over his name.

Before the lower half of his body could stage a revolt, Dean stepped behind Castiel, planting his feet on either side of those muscle-y, leather-clad calves. Damn. _Viva la révolution, mini-Dean_.

Big Dean turned, shooting a winning smile at the awesome chick who asked him to grab Castiel. “Hey, you got any requests?”

She grinned like a madwoman and gleefully shouted, “Wreck him like you mean it!”

The blue-eyed beauty flinched a little, but Dean couldn’t help but laugh. “If you insist,” he answered teasingly before indulging himself and running his hands through Castiel’s dark hair.

Dean had to bite back a growl. The strands were coarse and _perfect_ against his palms, sliding between his fingers and tickling his wrists. His blunt fingernails scratched lightly at Castiel’s scalp. He whined, pressing back against Dean like he hadn’t been touched in years. With a devious smirk, Dean’s knees hit the stage (perhaps a bit too hard), framing Castiel before detangling himself from that sinful hair. The noise of protest that Dean could feel starting in the back of Castiel’s throat transformed into a shuddery sigh when he skimmed his hands over Castiel’s midsection.

To Dean’s dismay, Doctor, Doctor hit it’s final chords and started to fade. He quickly masked his disappointment by grinning out at the frantic crowd. The woman who had gotten the two of them up there together looked immensely proud of her work, and he couldn’t help but wink at her. After all, she did end up being pretty damn awesome. Dean nuzzled the spot behind Castiel’s ear, whispering, “I’m gonna change, and then I’m gonna take you home with me. And I’m not letting you leave until I’ve had you on at least three different surfaces.” Dean planted a gentle, soothing kiss to Castiel’s neck when he groaned low in his throat. “It’s okay, I’ll go easy.” The dark-haired beauty relaxed in his arms. Dean smiled against his skin. “I’ll only make you beg for mercy twice.”

The dancer jumped to his feet, waving cheerily to the wild mob as he sashayed offstage, leaving his beautiful catch kneeling and aroused. Just the way he liked them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go! The couple finally gets their dance ;D We hope you've enjoyed us messing with these two, because we plan on doing a lot more messing. >;)
> 
> Thank you for reading! You guys are wonderful, thank you for all the support you've given us. <3 
> 
> As always, feel free to leave us a comment if we've missed something, or even if you just want to say hi! See you all next Tuesday!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley throws the boys a curve ball, and neither one can say they're thrilled about it.

Something short-circuited in Castiel’s brain, but he did find himself standing and drifting back off the stage. Apparently, ‘wrecking’ someone wasn’t hard for a man like Dean. No. Instead, it made men hard _for_ him. Even just thinking about that made Castiel blush, but it wasn’t exactly easy to ignore that the majority of his blood was now pooling in his groin, or that his leather pants were stimulating him in inappropriate ways. He barely resisted the urge to run for the bathroom and remedy the situation himself. Instead, he gimped awkwardly down the stage steps, shambling toward his seat with measured steps.

The girl that had pushed Dean in his direction looked at Castiel like the cat that had gotten the cream. He had a strong impulse to shake her hand. She caught his eye and winked at him. He nodded in thanks, hoping she would understand. Her answering smile was encouraging, making a shooing motion with her hands and mouthing ‘go get him.’ A small, nervous smile ghosted across his face. There _were_ people in the world who were as gracious as Chuck. Good to know.

The short man Dean called Crowley strolled out on the stage then, a microphone in his hand. “Let’s have another round of applause for all of tonight’s dancers.”

The gathering whooped and wolf-whistled raucously. Castiel was still struggling to recover enough to actually understand what that distasteful little creep is even saying.

“As you all know, we have quite the reputation for pleasing our customers,” Crowley continued, a gleam in his eye that Castiel deemed instantly unpleasant, “Tonight, we give you something new that we’d like to call Happy Hour.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like the sound of that. Mostly because that short, pompous man was saying it, but that was beside the point.

“We’ll be doing a bidding for each of our dancers in their order of appearance,” he drawled on, a smarmy look on his face, “Highest bidder will get an hour of attention. For everyone’s safety, normal rules apply. For those of you who are new to SPN, the rules are simple. One, we do not accept credit cards, checks, or IOUs.” Chuckles rippled around the room before he continued. “Two, dancers call the shots. If they say hands off, then keep your hands off. We don’t want to kick too many of you out.”

There was a short-lived snicker that raced through the crowd, the sound dying almost as soon as it started. A joke--it seemed--but also an underhanded threat. The group seemed to take it in stride. He frowned. It must be a strip club thing.

“Without further ado, let’s have Gabriel come back out, yeah?”

Whistles and catcalls rang out as Crowley slunk off the stage, and Castiel’s older brother came back out. Gabriel blew kisses and waved cheekily, making the noise jump to earsplitting levels. He looked happy to be up in front of those people, and Castiel couldn’t stop his fond smile. Gabriel would milk this for every drop it was worth and then some. He was most assuredly in his element.

“Hello again, Lawrence!” He called out cheerily, throwing his arms wide before asking, “Did’ja miss me?”

Applause erupted around the room, accompanied by hearty whistles and some very powerful shouts of assent.

“I dunno, you aren’t being very convincing,” Gabriel faux-pouted, crossing his arms and staring into the backstage area longingly.

The crowd let loose an uproarious din that had Castiel cringing in his seat and seriously considering throwing his hands over his ears.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Gabriel beamed in delight. “Ladies, let me hear you holla!”

Every woman in the crowd whooped, their hands thrown high in the air.

Gabriel laughed. “You ladies rock. Okay, dudes, whatcha got?”

The men around Castiel yelled, some raising beers in salute. Meekly, the blue-eyed beauty clapped along with the rest of the noisy group.

Gabriel peered backstage before turned back to the gathering. “All right, folks, give it up for the owner of SPN and the dude who writes my paycheck!”

Crowley reemerged amid a chorus of cheers, a strange, false-looking smile plastered on his face. Castiel frowned, but before he could analyze it further, the short man announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, best of luck. Let’s start at fifty?”

The women started bidding fast and furious, punctuated every so often by one of the bolder men. Crowley would barely get the new amount out before the next bidder would shout a new price.

Castiel watched the proceedings with voracious curiosity. It fascinated him to no end that people were willing to bid on another human being like livestock, and that the people being bid on actually _enjoyed_ it. Or at least Gabriel seemed to, but he loved being the center of attention. Castiel started to mentally note anything of interest from the audience or stage, hoping that he would take _something_ out of this field trip that would help Chuck out. Between the interference from Dean and his brothers, he felt like he’d done a pretty poor job thus far.

To his surprise, it wasn’t more than a couple of minutes before Crowley announced the winner. The tiny brunette jumped up, her eyes sparkling as she handed the man what could only be classified as a stack of bills. As soon as the payment left her hands, Gabriel threw her over his shoulder and legged it offstage, her giggly shrieks trailing off behind them.

The audience cheered as Castiel’s forehead creased. He didn’t understand the purpose of manhandling the girl, but she seemed happy enough. Perhaps Chuck could clarify that for him. He had a feeling that Dean wouldn’t be too interested in talking once they got out of the club. Admittedly, Castiel didn’t think he’d want to do any more talking than was absolutely necessary, either.

Castiel’s wayward attention was redirected when Crowley sauntered back onto center stage, a slightly more genuine grin on his face. “So far, so good. Balthazar, if you’d please?”

With a graceful, supercilious brand of confidence, he swept onto the stage. To Castiel’s relief, his eldest brother had traded the thong and robe for a pair of skin-tight skinny jeans, a white V-neck, and a pair of dog tags. Castiel didn’t let himself think too much about where his life had gone if seeing his brother in _skinny jeans_ was something to be happy about.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please proceed. Shall we begin again at fifty?”

The masses threw themselves at the stage as soon as the words left Crowley’s mouth, waving bills and shouting over one another. Castiel wasn’t sure how anyone even knew if they were winning or losing, but they kept going, bidding and outbidding with reckless abandon. One of the bachelorettes was even jumping up and down, waving over the heads of everyone else to stay in the running.

The frenetic noise was slow to die, but eventually Crowley announced that the bouncing bachelorette had won. At first, she looked too stunned to move, but she snapped out of it pretty quickly. With a victorious shout, the tiny woman darted forward, handed off her money, and bodily hauled Balthazar offstage. He didn’t seem to be adverse to it, but he did look a little surprised that such a little thing could haul him around like he weighed little more than a child. Castiel smiled at them as she flounced into a room with his eldest brother, her dark curls bouncing cheerily behind her. Balthazar needed someone to boss him around every once in a while. It would be good for him.

“Next up, we have... Sam,” Crowley announced, gesturing broadly as the tall man meekly shuffled onto the stage. Wolf whistles accompanied the clapping, and he seemed to cave into himself just a little with each one.

“I LOVE YOU, SAM!” One of the women yelled out. The others roared in approval as the towering man scuffed his toe against the stage, his ears burning bright red.

“All right, don’t embarrass him too much,” Crowley groused good-naturedly. Something about his expression rubbed Castiel the wrong way, like he really didn’t care, but he was pretending he did. “Shall we get started? Do I hear fifty?”

One of the bachelorettes—the one that had talked to Dean, Castiel realized—started whispering to the others. There was an excited giggle among them before she hopped up. “Fifty to Snakebites Guy!”

The kid’s eyes widened, a dark flush creeping across his face before he ducked his head. Castiel thought he seemed grateful, despite his obvious embarrassment.

Some of the folks in the back of the crowd made some offers, but between Snakebites Guy and the bachelorettes determinedly helping him along, there wasn’t much competition. Minutes later, Crowley announced that he had won. The bachelorettes cheered enthusiastically as the girl who had jumped up first ran over and handed over their money. The kid’s skin almost glowed red as she shoved the bills into his hands, but Castiel noted that he thanked her before pressing a soft, quick kiss to her cheek. She looked surprised but touched by the gesture, patting his arm before giving him a nudge in the direction of the stage.

He skulked toward Crowley and meekly handed over the money. Sam and the kid awkwardly shook hands before Sam gestured for Snakebites Guy to lead the way. He ducked his head as he gripped Sam by the hand and tugged him off the stage.

Once again, the short manager stepped up. His smile was genuine but showed a little strain at the edges. “Isn’t that sweet? Thank you, ladies, for your support.”

The girls gave a collective ‘hell yeah’ before dissolving into fits of giggles.

The seams of Crowley’s cheery demeanor seemed to split, giving way to something broader and more deliberate. “Now, we’d like to bring back our final dancer. He’s been with the club since it opened, and it shows. He’s a very talented young man, and it gives me great pleasure to bring him back out for your enjoyment. Dean, if you would, please?”

///

Dean was thoroughly annoyed as the crowd roared for him to come back, especially after Crowley’s overdone intro. Hell, he was downright _pissed_ , and for more than just the false flattery. If the creep hadn’t threatened to withhold his pay, Dean would have gotten the hell out of Dodge the minute he caught wind of this goddamn auction. He didn’t want to be here another hour. What he wanted was to get home and get fucking _laid_. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath in through his nose. “I need the money,” he reminded himself sternly, “If I didn’t need it, I would just leave. I need the money…”

With that mantra set on repeat inside his head, Dean took one more deep lungful of air before marching purposefully onto the stage.

The noise faltered as he made his way over to his dickbag boss. Dean knew he looked either utterly bored or weirdly standoffish and—to be perfectly honest—he couldn’t find it in himself to care too much. He stopped about a foot away from the creep, shoving his hands into pockets and surveying the crowd dispassionately.

It took him a moment to adjust to the stage lights, but Dean could tell a few audience members were bemused, as if they couldn’t figure out why he had marched out like a soldier instead of sauntering out like a performer, but it seemed like most of them caught on. They were looking from the stage to the area where Castiel was sitting and whispering amongst themselves. The bachelorettes were probably pretty miffed, and Dean could _feel_ the lethal glare that the chick that hooked him and Castiel up onstage was shooting Crowley. It was probably the fiercest look the dickbag had ever witnessed, judging by his nervous ring twisting. Before long, she was hurrying over to whisper something to Castiel. He sat for a few moments—completely immobile—before enfolding her in a tight hug. Dean could hear her laughing with lighthearted affection before settling into the seat next to Castiel. Dean couldn’t stop his lips from twitching up at the corners. They had someone on their side, in both the literal and figurative senses. Awesome.

Before he could convince himself that it was a bad idea, Dean tried to meet the intense, blue-eyed gaze he could feel lingering against his skin. The dark-haired beauty was probably sick to death of waiting, but maybe a trace of resignation would soften the petulant lines on his sweet, shy face…

_Shitshitshit, focus, Winchester!_ Dean dug his fingernails into his palms harshly in the hopes that it would temper his daydreaming. The sooner this ball got rolling, the sooner it would be over, and the sooner he could vamoose with his hot little number waiting ever so patiently in the crowd.

“Right,” Crowley drawled, his eyes flicking between Dean and the audience calculatingly, “Shall we—?”

“Fifty dollars.”

Every head in the house turned toward Castiel. All Dean could see was that he was on his feet, but that didn’t stop Dean’s heart from giving yet another strange squish in his chest. This time, he didn’t bother trying to smother it. His stony expression cracked as he shot his most genuine smile in Castiel’s general direction, hoping that he had received a sheepish grin in return, whether he could actually see it or not.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Excellent. Would anyone like to make it a hundred?”

The group was as silent as church mice, staring at Crowley as if he were speaking another language. Dean wanted to give every single one of them free drinks for life.

“All right,” the dickbag growled, his smile thin and artificial, “Fifty dollars. Going once… Going twice…”

Dean was getting ready to run off the stage in pure delight when a voice called out, freezing him in place.

“A hundred.”

He squinted against the glaring stage lights, searching for the owner of that mood-killing utterance. The guy who had placed the bid was lurking in the back, his hand half up in the air as if he was waiting to be called on. A surprised chatter raced through the crowd. The girls seemed absolutely distraught, chattering in angry stage whispers.

Dean wanted to sock that bastard in the jaw, or maybe take a knee to his gonads.

“And we have a hundred,” Crowley announced, a tone of bemused delight entering his tone. Dean shot him a dark look. The guy bidding against Castiel wasn’t the only one that deserved a swift kick to the jewels.

“A hundred fifty,” Castiel answered, his tone dripping with cool confidence. Dean grinned down at the floor. He couldn’t say he disliked it when people went a little alpha-male over him, especially someone he was taking home with him.

“Two hundred fifty,” the guy countered before Crowley could even draw a breath, a dark note in his voice that had the fine hairs on the nape of Dean’s neck standing up.

“Three hundred.”

Both men were as tense as a pair of pissed tomcats. Castiel’s arms were pressed obstinately by his sides as the bastard pushed away from the wall. He swaggered in two steps closer before setting a wide stance and folding his arms.

“Five hundred.”

Castiel hesitated. Dean knew that tell all too well. Three hundred was all he had. Judging by the smirk on the other guy’s face, he noticed, too.

“Anyone want to go higher that five hundred?” Crowley asked with faux politeness. Dean’s stomach sank when one silent second turned into two, and two agonizingly became five.

“Two hundred for Baby Blues!”

The girl sitting with Castiel was on her feet, pointing at him with determination in her voice. Dean could have kissed her, and he could guess that Castiel was probably thinking along the same lines.

“Five hundred and one, then,” Castiel retorted triumphantly.

The man shifts, but doesn’t make another offer.

Dean’s face almost split in half with the force of his excited smile, his heart squish changing into more of a swelling feeling as he thought about those gorgeous, blue eyes.

“Five thousand.”

Silence rang in the Loft as everyone—including Crowley and Dean—turned toward the doorway. Dean’s eyes narrow against the bright stage lights and the backlighting from the Mosh Pit, trying in vain to see who in the hell that new guy was, and why he would put down _five grand_ on a guy like Dean freakin’ Winchester.

Crowley swallowed, looking more flustered than Dean had ever seen him as he haltingly answered, “Judging from the, ah… stunned silence, I’ll assume that everyone else is out, yes?”

Dean watched with dismay as Castiel sat down uneasily, his shoulders slumping in defeat, the chick next to him following suit. As much as it pained him to watch Castiel sit back down, Dean knew he would have felt guilty if the gorgeous man had somehow managed to outbid Daddy Warbucks over there. He wasn’t worth it.

“Right, then,” Crowley muttered under his breath before turning toward the door with a bright smile, “Congratulations. Please pay out before we send you two to a private room.”

The guy by the door swaggered toward the stage. His movements were broad and cocky and Dean wanted nothing more than to tell that douchebag exactly where he could shove his five thousand dollars. Instead, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and put on his most impassive mask as the guy leapt onto the stage in one easy bound.

Dean’s blank stare quickly became a picture of pure disbelief when he saw the top bidder for the first time.

The man shot a sickly sweet smile at the two dumbstruck men. “Hello, Dean, Crowley. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.” In a gesture that was meant to be disarming but set the two even more on edge, he gave an over-exaggeratedly sweeping bow. “I co-own and dance at this modest little establishment called The Pit,” he informed them primly, his smile quickly turning feral as he continued, “You can call me Lucifer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles manically* Gotta love a plot twist, yeah? We'll just leave that there... until next week. >:D 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your support! Your comments have been wonderful, and we both read them (even if only one of us replies). Those--and the kudos--really keep us going. We appreciate the time you've spent here, and we hope you continue to support us... even if we do torture you a little with our cliffhangers. :P


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit hits the fan. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /// WARNING! ///
> 
> Mentions/hints of forcing one's self upon another! If this is a trigger for you, please do what you think is best for your mental health.

Castiel stared. He knew that social customs implied staring was impolite, but he felt he had a good reason. He barely even noticed when the young woman who had supported him and Dean patted his knee sympathetically and returned to her group. The man Castiel intended to sleep with was about to be locked in a room with Castiel’s estranged half-brother for an hour. _Sounds like the setup to a bad joke_ , he thought grimly. Except this was real life, and nothing about this situation was even remotely humorous.

Dean appeared to in limbo between fury and confused dread. He kept shooting looks between his boss and the guy who’d ‘won’ him, shifting from foot to foot as the two stared each other down. Castiel thought he looked like he was contemplating making a break for it. Castiel knew he’d be right on Dean’s heels, if he decided to run.

Crowley seemed to be equally puzzled, although the corners of his mouth curled in what Castiel could only interpret as contemplation. He stared at Lucifer calculatingly. It reminded Castiel of the way his cousin, Anna, would weigh apples in her hands, mulling over the price per pound before purchasing them.

Castiel almost scowled. He disliked that Anna’s look was on Crowley’s face, especially in regards to another human being. The clinical, compassionless stare made Castiel’s skin crawl.

Finally, Crowley addressed Dean, his cold gaze still locked on Lucifer. “Dean, would you go prep a room?”

Dean stared at him as if he’d just asked him to bathe in a tub of acid onstage. “Are you serious? He’s our _competition!”_

“Right now, he’s a paying customer,” Crowley spat back, finally turning to look Dean in the eye. His back was all Castiel could see, but the look on his face must have really been something, because Dean’s jaw tightened. Defiance flashed across his face for a moment before he relented and started to storm off the stage.

Lucifer must have muttered something offensive at the dancer as he passed, because Dean whirled, his shoulders tensed and drawn back. Lucifer laughed before murmuring something else, a sardonic smile twisting his lips. Dean’s fingers twitched, like he was itching to make a fist and introduce it to Lucifer’s sneering face. Repeatedly.

As much as Castiel didn’t like his half-brother, he hoped that Dean wouldn’t actually hit the man. Lucifer fought dirty—he always had—and not just with his fists. He would have Dean fired and fined within an inch of his life before he could even _think_ about forming a grudging apology.

At least Crowley had enough sense to notice the tension. Wisely, he interceded, stepping between his dancer and his customer. “Dean. Go,” he growled, his eyes latching once again on Lucifer’s smug face. The calculating gleam was still there, but now it was tempered with a healthy trace of skepticism.

“Crowley—”

_“Now.”_

Dean huffed but otherwise followed the order without a word. Lucifer watched him go with a lazy, hungry grin on his face. There was something about the gleam in his eye that made the hairs on the back of Castiel’s neck stand straight up. It was feral and possessive and nothing about this situation was sitting right with the editor. A sense of wrongness radiated out from inside of him, but he couldn’t put a finger on what exactly was setting if off.

Dean stomped down the steps nearest Castiel, and the two locked eyes. There was a moment of deliberation before Dean marched toward him. Castiel could feel the frustration radiating off of him even onstage, but it was even more potent the closer he came. His jaw was set, and each movement was jerky and rough with restrained anger. Even his brilliant, green eyes burned with it.

Castiel licked his lips nervously and wished that his upstairs head did more thinking than his downstairs one, because the downstairs one was getting to be a little _too_ creative.

Dean stopped right in front of him. There was still a light sheen of sweat gleaming on his face, and Castiel had to clench his fists because _this was not a good time to be turned on by sweat._ There was a beat of intense eye contact before Dean gripped him by the lapels of his dress shirt and hauled him bodily to the edge of his seat. Automatically, Castiel clung to Dean’s arms to keep from falling, his wide-eyed stare fixed on Dean’s face.

“Don’t you dare leave,” the brunet growled, his rough voice deeper with quiet irritation. Castiel had to bite his cheek to keep from whining pathetically at the sharp demand. “I said I was gonna make you beg for mercy, and I meant it.”

The dumbstruck editor had to swallow twice before managing to hoarsely squeak, “I’ll hold you to that.”

A dark, cocky smile crossed the dancer’s face. “Good.” His fingers relaxed against the smooth fabric of Castiel’s shirt as he straightened. There was a flash of Dean the Bartender as he smoothed out Castiel’s lapels with long, languid strokes, his smile brightening around the edges. “’Cause I’m not done with you, hot stuff. Not by a long shot.” He turned and stalked off, some of the annoyance dissipating as he headed back toward the private rooms.

Castiel swallowed. He was really in for it tonight.

“My apologies.” On the outskirts of his mind, the dark-haired man heard Crowley’s overly sweet, placating voice. He blinked, his gaze darting back up to the stage and the two undesirables that stood upon it. “He should have a room ready in a few moments. I’ll need to see your payment before I can let you go have your fun, however.”

“Sure thing, sweet cheeks,” Lucifer crooned, winking at one very confused, very disturbed club owner before sliding his hands into his pockets and producing two thick rolls of cash.

As Crowley took them off his hands eagerly and began counting, Castiel let his mind drift. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do for a whole hour, but there was no way he was missing out on anything Dean was offering. He wondered what exactly Dean had in mind. It was obvious that he had some sort of a plan, even if it wasn’t fully formed yet. Anticipation sent a thrilling shiver down Castiel’s spine. He could hardly wait—

“Uh, excuse me?”

Castiel jumped, snapping his head to see the owner of the timid voice. The young man with the thumbnail-sized gauges was hovering nearby, shifting from foot to foot and chewing on his lip.

“Uh, hi,” the kid amended, offering his hand awkwardly, “I’m… Alfie.”

“Hello,” Castiel answered, reflexively gripping the kid’s offered palm, “Can I help you with something?”

The confused politeness of Castiel’s tone seemed to make the kid even more anxious. He shifted from foot to foot, his teeth sinking into the frail skin of his lower lip until it turned a startling shade of white.

Castiel opened his mouth to say something more when the kid straightened his thin shoulders and looked Castiel straight in the eye with a burst of determination.

“I think Dean might be in trouble.”

///

After his stare-down with Castiel, Dean felt a little bit better about the whole fraternizing-with-the-enemy situation he was currently stuck in. It still sucked—and he was _definitely_ gonna be ready to call security at a moment’s notice—but knowing that his blue-eyed, messy-haired angel was sticking around made it a bit more tolerable.

 _Angel_. Dean smiled embarrassedly to himself. It was a good word to describe Castiel, even though it was pretty much the oldest cliché in the books. His face was gentle and kind, with eyes that still held a glimmer of innocence despite his age. It wasn’t childish, though. No, there was something about him that radiated purity and goodness and quiet strength.

Dean was selfish enough to want it all to himself. He couldn’t bring himself to feel too guilty about it, either.

Nimbly, Dean hopped over the bar, snatching up his private room keys that _he didn’t even know he would be needing tonight, thanks for nothing, Crowley._ He shot Jo a cheeky wink as he slid back to the other side. She blew him an over-exaggerated kiss, not spilling even a tiny drop of the daiquiri she was pouring.

“Go get ‘em, hotshot.”

“I can handle that,” he retorted, watching her slide the neon yellow drink artfully down the counter, “Flick your fingers more, it looks fancier.”

“Don’t you sass me, Winchester,” Jo sniped back playfully, pointing at him with her now-empty tumbler, “Don’t tell me how to do my job, and I won’t tell you how weak your body rolls were tonight.”

“Touché,” Dean laughed as he sashayed away, “You’d win that one, anyway, O mighty master of dancing finesse.”

“Damn straight, I would,” she growled under her breath, just loud enough for Dean to hear it as he stalked past her and her smiling customers.

He was grinning as he walked down the short, narrow hall and slid the key into his door. Jo was sweet. She really had taught him a lot about presentation, and he was incredibly grateful for it. If she hadn’t come into his life—nitpicking, bitching, teasing, and eye-rolling the whole entire way—Dean would never have been able to entertain an audience with such practiced ease. He owed her so much more than just the job downstairs. He probably owed her half of the club and a beach house in Tahiti.

Still smiling affectionately, Dean unlocked the door and shoved it open with his hip. He jiggled the key back out with a little difficulty, grumbling about aging doors and stubborn locks that probably needed to be replaced in the near future.

Dean barely got the key into his pocket before he was being shoved roughly inside. He whirled instinctively, opening his mouth to shout for the security guy when a hand connected with his diaphragm. A sharp pain radiated out from that spot as all of Dean’s breath hissed out of his body in a single, heavy breath. The hand became two as he was pinned aggressively against the nearest wall. Dean’s head smacked against the plaster, knocking him off balance before a forearm pressed into his throat, restricting his airflow and keeping him from calling out. He blinked hard, trying to center himself long enough see the sonovabitch—

“Hi, there.”

The man pinning him was grinning frighteningly, his freaky yellow eyes gleaming with cruel cheeriness. His face was lined with age, the wrinkles stretching and bending to accommodate the twisted mess that just barely passed for a smile.

Dean snarled at him, but it came out choked and broken. Finally back in a state of equilibrium, his hands shot up to wrench the arm away from his throat so he could kick the bastard’s ass.

“Ah, ah,” Yellow Eyes scolded playfully, jamming his knee into Dean’s groin. Dean gasped, his hands stilling against the other man’s skin as a burst of sickening pain rolled through him. Tears started to form in the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them back by sheer force of will. “You shouldn’t pick a fight with a customer, you bad boy.”

Desperately, he shoved against the bastard, but the movement forced the knee to dig in even harder. He aborted the action with a raspy yelp.

“Dean, Dean, Dean. You really should know better,” Yellow Eyes sighed theatrically, the mangled smile growing wider with psychotic glee, “You could use a guiding hand and a little discipline, don’t you think? I’ve heard so much about you. Word on the street is that you’re a pretty impressive switch.” His eyes gleamed with crazy as he took in Dean’s body appreciatively. “Mind if I have a taste?”

“Go to hell,” Dean wheezed around the constriction with as much venom as he could muster. True fear started to bleed into his chest. His past was catching up with him, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

The man clicked his tongue disapprovingly, pressing his arm more firmly against Dean’s throat. Dean gasped desperately, his fingernails sinking into skin. “If you were my pet, I’d have to gag you and put you over my knee for that.” His weird eyes sparkled with malice. “In fact, I would do a lot of things with you and that pretty little mouth of yours.”

Dean glared with white-hot hatred. If looks could kill, Yellow Eyes would be dead a hundred thousand times over. Preferably in slow, torturous ways, with small cuts and poisons and copious amounts of screaming.

“Oh, I like that look. Defiance looks good on you, Winchester.” With his free hand, the man reached behind himself with a shark-like smile. Panic shot through Dean, but he fought it down. There was nothing this bastard could do to him that would be any worse than The Four Months From Hell. “Getting you to submit will be a delight,” he continued, his grin so warped now that it could only be classified as an elated sneer.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw a flash of movement. Before he could register anything further, the man in front of him was howling, stumbling away from Dean. Wisely, the dancer darted out of the way as Yellow Eyes was forcibly slammed into the wall.

“Dean, are you all right?”

Dean gaped. Castiel had the man’s arm twisted behind his back, his other hand forcing his face into the rough plaster. The man looked dazed, as if he couldn’t figure out where he was, or what he was doing there. A surge of relief nearly took Dean to his knees. Maybe his whole life wasn’t going to crumble tonight. Maybe the past would stay the past for at least another day.

“Y-yeah,” he answered softly, his voice still a little creaky from the abuse his throat had taken.

Yellow Eyes snarled suddenly, struggling against Castiel’s firm hold. A look of disgusted annoyance crossed Castiel’s face before he released the bastard’s head and pressed his thumb down hard on his collarbone. Yellow Eyes cursed, his face pinching with pain as he wilted to his knees with Castiel bearing down on the pressure point. Once his knees hit the plush carpet, Castiel put his weight on the man’s calves, twisted his fingers into his short hair, and slammed his head into the wall again.

Castiel turned his attention back to Dean, his eyes alight with annoyance and cheeks flushed from his clash with Yellow Eyes. His hair was even messier than before, stopping just shy of falling in his eyes. “Good. I’m glad you weren’t harmed.”

Dean couldn’t stop staring. Tension began to mount, stacking layer by layer until it was thick enough to cut with a knife. It took him a full ten seconds to realize he was gaping like a moron, his eyes locked onto Castiel’s beautiful blues. Just as he sucked in a long overdue breath to call for security, Crowley stormed in with Lucifer close behind.

“What’s going on?”

Before Dean could even _think_ about breathing, Castiel answered, “This man followed Dean and assaulted him.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, his dark eyes flicking up to meet Dean’s. “That so?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, that’s so.” He winced as it rasped anyway.

“And you didn’t call for help because…?”

The shred of patience Dean had left shattered. He threw up his hands in frustration. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I was a little bit busy getting my throat crushed?”

Before Crowley could make a rude retort, Lucifer sighed melodramatically and ruffled his sandy hair. “Honestly, Azazel? You disappoint me.” He shook his head slowly, disapproval accenting his features.

The man against the wall seemed to shrink in on himself in contrition. His eyes immediately dropped to the floor, even though he wasn’t facing him. Dean’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Apparently, he wasn’t the only ‘switch’ in the room.

Lucifer motioned for Castiel to step away from the bastard. He complied in hesitant silence, his gorgeous eyes still blazing with dark, defiant energy.

Dean swallowed, reminding himself that this really wasn’t the time or place to be ogling a furious, worked up, _handsome_ guy. That wasn’t necessarily gonna stop him, but he definitely needed to be reminded as he watched muscles stretch and bunch beneath thin, white cloth.

Dean’s attention was reclaimed when the man named Azazel stood up slowly, his eyes darting between Lucifer’s cold stare and the floor. He seemed to get increasingly nervous the longer those piercing blue eyes rested on him. It wasn’t more than a moment before Azazel broke.

“Lucifer, I—”

The blond held up a hand, light eyes glittering as Azazel fell silent. “You know better than to play with my things.”

Dean flinched at the possessive growl as Lucifer turned his icy, arrogant gaze on him and letting it rove over his body appreciatively. He just barely resisted the impulse to cover himself in embarrassment or punch the dickbag in the throat. Admittedly, the latter would make him feel a hell of a lot better…

Before Dean could actually act on either instinct, Lucifer shouldered past Crowley to Azazel. The yellow-eyed creep kept his head low as the blond guided him toward with a firm hand on his lower back.

“I’ll show him out,” Lucifer promised, staring Crowley down.

There was a silent struggle before Crowley deflated. Grudgingly, he stepped to one side, gesturing with impatient civility for them to pass.

“Thank you, love,” Lucifer crooned, eliciting a disgusted sneer from the owner.

“Get out before I have security do it for you.”

“Cheeky. I like.” Before he left, the blond turned and winked at Dean. “You have a nice night, handsome. Don’t let any of those nasty little bedbugs bite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. *mops sweat off of forehead* Crisis averted. :) FOR NOW. o_O
> 
> The Four Months will be explained later on in _full_ detail. Scout's honor.
> 
> We're sure most of you are aware, but a switch is someone who both doms AND subs, depending on what they want. (We'll leave you [this link](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Switch_\(BDSM\)) to the switch Wiki page.) 
> 
> Thank you for reading, supporting, and especially for all the comments and flip-outs and kudos! We love hearing from you. <3 As usual, let us know if anything is amiss, something trips your trigger, or even if you just want to freak out in fangirl for bit. We can take it!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Practice makes perfect. ;)

A rare brand of anger burned in Castiel’s chest. It was fierce and bright, but the fire died off rather quickly. The sketchy men were gone, Dean was okay, and why was he staring at him like that?

The dark haired man cocked his head in confusion. Dean’s brilliant green eyes were indecipherable, but there was a definite spark of heat that still lingered behind those lovely irises.

“Y’know, I could have handled that,” he said casually, tucking his hands into his pockets.

Castiel blinked in confusion. “I am aware, but he did have you in a rather unconventional position.”

The brunet raised his eyebrows in a silent challenge before deciding to let it go. “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

“I have two older brothers,” Castiel deadpanned.

“That’ll do it,” Dean laughed, delicate lines fanning out prettily from the corners of his eyes, “Well, then… I guess all I have to say is thanks.”

“You are more than welcome, Dean.”

Dean stared at Castiel, and he stared right back. The tension in the room began to grow thicker and thicker, until Castiel swore he could _smell_ it. It was thick and heady and dammit, he really needed a good lay. Casual sex wasn’t usually his thing, but the longer he looked into those beautiful, lust-darkened eyes, the more willing he was to make an exception.

As it were, Dean broke the intense eye contact first. He cleared his throat softly, gaze flicking down to Castiel’s mouth. “So… I’m technically off. I mean, I don’t have to stay if there isn’t a customer for me to tend to, and Crowley owes me for this weird-ass night.”

Castiel cocked his head, searching the perfectly proportional planes of the dancer’s face. “This isn’t normal?”

Dean laughed humorlessly. “No. No, most nights I stay safely behind the bar, _away_ from the full-blown psychopaths and their creepy handlers.”

“So, this night has been unpleasant for you,” Castiel inferred, his hopes deflating. He would understand if Dean turned him away, but it would still be a little disappointing.

Dean crossed his arms and pursed his lips in dramatic consideration, taking a meandering step closer. “Well, not entirely.” A flirtatious smile had his eyes sparkling playfully. “You think you can help me salvage it?”

“Yes.”

Dean laughed at the quick reply, the rich, deep sound caressing Castiel’s eardrums. “Care to put your money where your mouth is, big shot?”

“Currency is absolutely disgusting,” Castiel answered seriously, “I wouldn’t find it pleasant to have something such as that inside my mouth.”

Another pleasant laugh. “It’s just an expression, Castiel.”

He blinked before replying mildly. “I don’t understand how that saying came to be.”

“Well, I don’t know, either,” Dean admitted with an amused laugh, his fingers casually curling around Castiel’s narrow waist, “All I know is that I like the idea behind it.”

“I agree,” Castiel murmured distractedly, his throat drying at the feel of those clever digits sliding effortlessly over the thin fabric of his shirt. Goosebumps erupted across his skin as Dean’s body heat seeped through, sending little waves of warmth swirling lazily through Castiel’s body. Damn, it had been _so long_ since someone had touched him with this sort of intent. Like he was actually desirable. A thrill shot along his nerves in anticipation. It was a very pleasant feeling.

“Let’s get the hell out of Dodge, then,” Dean murmured. He was close enough that Castiel could almost taste the light, earthy tang that could only be Dean. There was a faint hint of sweet, fresh apples balancing the sharp, masculine smell, and it took every ounce of Castiel’s waning willpower to keep himself in check.

“That would probably be for the best,” he forced out hoarsely.

Dean smiled wickedly, drawing a quiet noise from the editor. “Let’s see if you can find something dirtier than money to put inside your mouth.”

///

The sound that forced its way out of the beautiful man’s mouth was sinful. It was low and needy, and Dean was pretty damn proud of himself for causing it. Something told him that guys like Castiel didn’t let go very often. Actually, maybe this specific kind was just Cas. He was pretty enough to get some every night, if he wanted it. The guy was pretty much sex on legs. Gorgeous, muscular, runner’s legs that just _begged_ to be spread wide around hips or hooked over shoulders.

Dean’s tongue skimmed over his lips in anticipation, letting his fingers tighten against silk-covered skin. “Shall we?”

Castiel’s breath hitched, the slim band of blue iris thinning even further. His muscles flexed beneath Dean’s hands as Castiel steeled himself and murmured, “That would probably be for the best.”

“Awesome.” With a wicked smile, Dean stepped back and twined their fingers together, tugging the handsome, dumbstruck man along behind him. “I’ll put on my civvies and let Crowley know I’m heading out. Sound like a plan?”

“Yes.”

The soft, almost reverent tone almost made Dean turn on his heel and take Castiel right there. Instead, he swallowed and dragged him along behind him, praying that Crowley would just pay him and let him leave without turning the whole thing on it’s head and forcing an all-out argument. He really didn’t want to have it out with his boss tonight, especially if he was going to go home and get some.

The two of them picked their way to the bar. Jo was leaning against the counter with her hip, reading a scruffy paperback and idly twirling the end of her ponytail. To the casual observer, she would appear to be completely engrossed, but Dean knew better. She was passing the time while inconspicuously scoping for new customers, just like Dean did when he polished the countertops.

“Hey, Jo, you seen Crowley?”

Wordlessly, she pointed to the stage, her eyes never leaving the battered page in front of her.

“Thanks.” Dean bent close to give her a swift peck on the cheek (that she easily deflected with a palm to the face), and dragged his boy toy off.

“Jo is a woman of many talents, isn’t she?”

Castiel’s voice was so light with respectful admiration that Dean glanced at him, an irrational flash of jealously searing just beneath his skin. The dark-haired man just looked thoughtful, the gleam of awe softened beneath a layer of professional curiosity.

It made Dean feel like an idiot for getting worked up over it. “Yeah, Jo’s the real deal,” he mumbled, hiding his reddening face as the two of them ducked backstage. He was jealous over a guy he just met. How desperate did that make him? A scowl twisted the corners of his mouth as he berated with himself. It was just because he hadn’t gotten properly laid in a while. Dean Winchester’s life was _not_ a chick-flick. None of that touchy-feely, self-help yoga crap.

Dean knocked twice on Crowley’s door.

“Leave a message, I’m busy.”

He rolled his eyes skyward in irritation. “It’s Dean.”

The sound of shuffling papers and soft swearing came as Crowley maneuvered the broom closet he called an office.

“One…” Dean started counting softly under his breath, “Two…”

Castiel gave him a funny look, and Dean held up a finger.

“Three.” Dean pointed to the door just as a loud _thunk_ echoed from the other side of the door, accompanied by a colorful string of curses. Dean grinned at Castiel, who cracked a rather handsome smile.

Crowley’s disgruntled face poked around the doorframe. “What part of ‘busy’ don’t you understand?”

“I’m heading out for the night,” Dean answered coolly, raising Castiel’s and his hands in implication, “I wanna grab my tip money before I go.”

He wrinkled his nose disdainfully at Dean’s little show-and-tell. “That’s more than I needed to know.” He slipped back into his cramped, cluttered office, smacking his knee on the corner. Again.

“You know, if you got some of these Xerox boxes out of here—”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Winchester,” Crowley snapped, venom leeching into his tone.

Dean shrugged as Castiel tensed. The dancer was unaffected, letting the sharpness in his boss’s voice roll over him. “Just trying to help you out, man.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the creep groused crossly, rifling through the beat-up filing cabinet behind him. After a beat, he pulled a stack of bills out and handed them over. “That should be everything.”

“Why didn’t you put it in the lockbox?” Dean asked idly, dropping Castiel’s hand and counting the bills out of habit.

“Because I knew you’d want to haul arse the minute you finished up.”

“Fair enough.” Dean’s eyebrows shot up as he counted, pausing after the first thousand to ask, “All this is mine?”

“No, it’s Her Majesty, the Queen’s.”

“Wow, she’s loaded.”

“You had _one bid_ that was worth five-thousand dollars. What exactly did you expect?”

“Just seems like a lot,” Dean replied coolly, straightening the bills after every thousand.

The room fell silent until there was a thick stack of hundreds on the corner of the messy desk. Dean whistled.

“Well, now I know what five thousand dollars looks like in cash,” he muttered. A frown creased his brow as he thumbed through the rest of the cash. “This can’t all be tips. There’s gotta be four hundred dollars here.”

“Oh, I paid you for dancing tonight,” Crowley answered flippantly, his eyes downcast as he searched through the mountain of documents on his desk.

“Already?”

“Better early than not at all, yeah?”

Dean held up his hands, trying to placate his surly boss. “Hey, I’m not complaining. Just pleasantly surprised, is all.”

“Good. Then get out of my office.”

“Okay, okay, we’re going,” Dean murmured in his most appeasing tone as he turned and ushered one very quiet Castiel back out the door.

Once the lock clicked into place, Dean turned toward Castiel with a bright smile. “Well. I’m all yours, handsome.”

“So it would seem,” the dark-haired man answered, his fair eyes scouring Dean’s face.

The dancer cleared his throat, unnerved by the intense, soul-searching stare. “Yeah. So. I’m gonna go change, and then we can head out. Okay?”

Castiel nodded seriously.

“You can wait back here, if you want. It should only take me a few minutes.”

“That is acceptable.”

Dean beamed. “Awesome. Be right back.” He turned to go, but his feet wouldn’t move. Torn, he bit his lip. His mind seemed to make itself when he spun on his heel, cupped Castiel’s face, and kissed him hard.

The blue-eyed beauty froze solid under Dean’s mouth. His stomach dropped, stupidly worrying if maybe Castiel wasn’t into this, that he’d overstepped—

All at once, the meek, mild-mannered dude was responding enthusiastically with tongue and teeth, his hands sliding around Dean’s waist. Their teeth clicked together clumsily, and Dean broke away with a laugh.

“Damn,” he snickered, letting his thumbs brush against Castiel’s cheekbones soothingly, “We’re not very good at that.”

“We’re going to have to practice,” Castiel agreed seriously, a gleam in his eyes.

Dean smiled. “Good thing we’ve got all night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehehehe. ^^ They should be home and having a grand ol' time at the end of the next chapter or the beginning of next. ;D It just didn't work out in this one... apologies. 
> 
> ** Just as a side note, Forgotten_Alice12 will be leaving the country on the 11th. We should have the next chapter up before then, but it might be two weeks before we get the one after that written and posted. (I'm not taking my computer, as that is just an unnecessary risk I am unwilling to take.) We'll do our best to keep on schedule for you from then on!
> 
> As per usual, thank you for your support. To our continuing readers, we appreciate the feedback you've given, and we hope you keep telling us how we're doing! To our new readers, welcome! Please feel free to leave us comments and tell us what's working, what isn't, or even if you just wanna say hi! :D


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys make plans. Lots and lots of plans. ;)

Castiel couldn’t believe that this was his life. An attractive man had actively sought him out and offered to take him home for the night. And he had agreed to go. Frankly, he had the absurd impulse to pinch himself.

Dean seemed oblivious to his shock, kissing him messily one more time before winking and sashaying off to put on his ‘civvies,’ as he called them.

Nervous, Castiel rubbed his palms against his thighs, his eyes darting around the dim space. It was incredibly untidy, to say the least. Boxes were stacked in haphazard clusters, some even overflowing with documents and manila folders. Several foldaway tables were heaped with feathery things, leather, and bits of shimmery cloth. There were cop hats and fireman pants and all sorts of costume paraphernalia strewn across every semi-flat surface. Castiel’s fingers twitched with the urge to tidy up.

“Hey, little bro!”

Castiel turned just in time, dodging the hands that would have ruffled his hair. “Gabriel?”

“Who else would it be?” He laughed, hooking his thumbs into the fraying belt loops of his worn-out jeans. “What’cha doin’ back here, little bro?”

He looked down, heat flaring in his cheeks. “I’m, uh… why is it so messy back here?”

“This? Yeah, it’s pretty much the aftermath of an E-5 strip-nado,” Gabriel commented in his most off-handed tone, “A better question would be this.” He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, contemplating his little brother intensely. “Why are you avoiding my question?”

Castiel hesitated. “I’m waiting.”

“You know you don’t have to wait up for Balth and me, right? I mean, I thought we made that pretty clear.”

“Not for you two.”

Gabriel clamped a hand over his heart theatrically. “You wound me.”

“Honestly, I don’t know _why_ I try to be subtle with you,” Castiel muttered, scowling in embarrassed irritation, “I’m waiting for Dean.”

His brother stared for a second before bursting into a fit of laughter. “Oh, man,” he gasped, bracing his hands on his knees as another burst of near-hysteria hit him.

Castiel crossed his arms and waited.

“Holy shit,” Gabriel giggled, swiping tears off of his face, “Oh, that was a good one. But really, Cassie, why are you waiting up?”

He dropped his head to one side and waited some more.

It was two seconds before Gabriel’s eyes lit up with realization. “You’re serious?!” He punched Castiel in the arm before taking him by the shoulders and shaking lightly. “Shut the fuck up, man, that’s awesome!”

Castiel winced, already feeling a bruise starting to form as he shrugged off his brother’s firm hands. “Why on Earth are you congratulating me for engaging in casual sex?”

“Because one, I am not a prude. Two, have you _met_ me?”

“I live with you, so yes.”

Gabriel groaned. “Sarcasm, Cassie, sarcasm!”

Thoroughly annoyed, he ignored his melodramatic brother. “You’ve never congratulated me before. Why is this different?”

Thoughtfully, Gabriel pursed his lips. “How long have we lived here?”

“What does that have to do with—”

“Humor me, little bro.”

Castiel sighed in his most put-upon way. “A year.”

“And how long have Balth and I been working here?”

“Eight months or so.”

Gabriel twirled a finger in the air. “Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner!”

“Why is that relevant?” Castiel could hear the bite sneaking into his tone. All he wanted was a straight answer, not a game of twenty questions.

Abruptly, Gabriel’s face went entirely serious. “How many people do you think Dean’s gone home with in that timeframe?”

A twinge of hastily repressed jealousy stabbed through Castiel. “Quite a few, I would imagine.”

Gabriel assessed his little brother with those sharp, gold-amber eyes. “Your imagination would be incorrect. The grand-total for women averages out to…” He counted in his head, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. “About three a month?”

“Twenty four is quite a significant number,” Castiel murmured, working to keep the petulance out of his voice.

“A lot of them were early on, in addition to being repeats, so it’s even less than that. Besides, for a virile, sexually active man in his late twenties to early thirties?” Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve seen the statistics you’ve looked up, and that’s a blip on the radar in comparison.”

“For a _gay_ male, it’s a blip. That is still statistically high for a straight man,” Castiel argued.

“Bisexual,” Gabriel corrected, “Which brings me to quite nicely to my next point. Dean Winchester has picked up exactly this many men.” He clicked his tongue, making a circle with his fingers.

Castiel frowned. “None at all? Then how do you know he’s bisexual?”

“He’s told a few stories. The dude’s not exactly shy. About anything.”

“Who’s not shy?”

Castiel flinched guiltily at the sound of Dean’s voice, and both he and his brother turned to face him. He had put back on his black shirt and blue tie but had added a dark leather jacket. A beautifully aged, well-cared-for, _sexy_ leather jacket. Castiel could feel the saliva pool in his mouth.

“Hey, there, Dean-o!” Gabriel crowed cheerfully, hooking an arm around Castiel’s neck. He stumbled under the abrupt motion, nearly overbalancing before he shook his brother off in embarrassment. “We were just talking about you.”

The dancer glanced between the two of them, a strange look coming over his face. “Uh… am I interrupting?”

Castiel opened his mouth, but Gabriel beat him out. “Yep! No big, though, you’re more than welcome to join the gossip circle.”

 _“Gabriel,”_ Castiel hissed, hoping he would take a hint and shut up.

“As much as I love talking about myself, little bro, we don’t have time for that much gossip. Better stick with Dean.”

Dean ignored the jab, his eyebrows shooting up. “Gabriel is your brother?”

“Yes,” Castiel answered stiffly, worry tingeing his voice.

“Huh.” To his relief, Dean just nodded thoughtfully. “Well, anyway, I’d have to agree with you.” A coquettish half-smile graced his sinful lips as his sparkling, emerald gaze caught Castiel’s. “Shy? Mama, I ain’t that kinda guy.”

Heat flashed along his skin. Dean was quoting the song he danced to. The song that had him _all over Castiel_. Another bout of hot lust washed across his skin. He was sure he’d never be able to hear that song again without getting worked up.

“Did you just…?” For the first time in Castiel’s memory, Gabriel seemed to be struggling for coherency. He looked from his co-worker to his little brother in disbelief, his mouth hanging open.

Castiel bit his cheek to hold off a grin. Seeing Gabriel speechless was a treat in itself. He almost didn’t notice when yet another person joined their group.

“Uh, why does Gabriel look like he’s about ready to break out the brain bleach?”

All three of them turned as the tall man sauntered up to them with a wary look on his face. Sam, Castiel remembered.

“Dude, you’re done early,” Dean commented, surprise coloring his tone.

“Yeah, Dean, I _really_ don’t wanna talk about it,” Sam answered, grimacing.

“Aw, why not, Sammy?” Gabriel demanded suddenly, breaking out of his stupor and turning toward the towering man.

“It’s Sam, Gabriel,” he sighed in a long-suffering tone.

Castiel’s older brother barely acknowledged the correction. “Dean, tell your tree of a brother to spill his guts,” he whined, pushing out his lower lip.

With a roll of his eyes, Dean retorted, “You say that like I have control over him.”

“Sam is your brother?” Castiel inquired. He glanced between the two of them, trying to find some resemblance. Honestly, he didn’t find a whole lot.

Gabriel was the one who answered him. “Yes, indeedy, little bro.”

“Wait… _Gabriel_ is _your_ brother?” Sam demanded, his eyes wide with shock.

“Yes,” Castiel answered, looking between the Winchester brothers curiously. Nope, still wasn’t finding any obvious similarities.

Sam groaned, letting his head fall back. “Dammit, there are more of them.”

“I find that statement offensive, Samsquatch,” Gabriel sniffed dramatically.

“Then I’ve done my job,” Sam quipped back in a dry tone.

Dean ignored the debate. Instead, he turned toward Castiel, a playful gleam in his eyes. “You wanna leave before they start making out or something?”

Castiel blinked, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in his stomach. “Are they flirting?”

“No!” Sam shouted as Gabriel flippantly requested, “Define flirting.”

The teasing curve of Dean’s mouth turned into a full-blown smirk when Sam glared at Gabriel, who winked cheekily.

“Since your big bro and my little one are gonna go knock boots and all that, maybe you’d like to grab some coffee with little ol’ me?”

Sam growled. “Why the hell would I go get coffee with you at eleven o’clock at night?”

Nonchalantly, Gabriel began counting on his fingers. “One, I assume you don’t want to be there when they’re hitting it like a couple of cavemen.” Sam paled a little, but Gabriel plowed on. “Two, it’s coffee. Coffee shops are a lot less sketchy than bars.” When Sam raised an eyebrow, Gabriel shrugged. “What? You don’t hear about people getting roofie’d in a coffee shop.”

“Reassuring,” Sam snarked incredulously.

Dean punched his brother in the shoulder. “Go on, man. Won’t kill ya to have a night out. Besides, the walls aren’t exactly thick at home.”

Disbelieving, the tall man stared down his brother, then Gabriel before shaking his head and throwing up his hands. “I can’t believe I’m letting you two run me out of my own house.”

Gabriel brightened, his amber eyes glowing with delight. “You’ll go?”

“I really don’t want to hear what’s gonna go down tonight,” Sam answered, cringing at his own mental images. Castiel wondered if he should be more embarrassed that they were talking extensively about him having aggressive, noisy sex with Dean, but he was too busy being turned on by the thought of _having aggressive, noisy sex with Dean._

Sam cuffed a hand through his long, brown hair, jerking Castiel out of his own dirty mind. “So, yeah. I’m in.”

The slow, semi-evil smile that spread across Gabriel’s face had even his blue-eyed brother raising his eyebrows in shock. “Excellent.” He grabbed Sam and shoved him bodily out the door, ignoring the bigger man’s protests. “Goodnight, kiddos. You two have a nice, athletic time!”

Castiel was barely even paying attention to his brother. He had locked eyes with Dean the second Sam had agreed to leave for the night, and Castiel couldn’t find it in himself to look away.

“Well,” Dean rumbled amiably, his eyes darkening in a way that made Castiel’s heart leap in anticipation, “Sounds like we’re gonna have the house to ourselves.” He offered a hand, along with a troublemaker’s smirk. “Shall we?”

///

Driving the speed limit had never really been Dean’s thing. In reality, the drive from home to SPN should easily take fifteen minutes. If he hit all the lights just right—and dodged the non-client cops—he could usually get there in about ten. Nine if he was really, really lucky.

Tonight, he got back home in seven, miraculously hitting all green lights and not seeing a single squad car as he went almost twice the posted limit. It was a risk, but one he was willing to take. And judging by Castiel’s white-knuckled fists and tension-taut jawline, he wasn’t about to complain. Either that, or Dean was more reckless than he thought.

Dean parked his baby, hastily swiping his damp palms on the coarse fabric of his slacks. “So, uh… we’re here,” he stated lamely. He felt like an idiot as soon as the words left his mouth, but his dark-haired beauty seemed to be more focused on the way his mouth shaped the words than what he was actually saying.

Absently, Castiel’s licked at his bottom lip. Dean watched shamelessly. “Are we… going to go inside?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered before taking the gorgeous man’s face in his hands, “But I think we need to practice some more first.” He tugged Castiel closer, pulling him until he was leaning over the console and into another kiss.

This one was better than the others by a long shot. Their mouths slotted together easily, noses almost smushing together before Dean tilted his head. Teeth stayed out of the mix entirely, which worked in their favor anyway. It was still imperfect, arrhythmic, and a little on the chaste side, but it was improving. And Dean sure as hell wasn’t gonna complain.

Castiel was the first to break away, their foreheads pressing together as they both sucked in identical lungfuls of air.

“I think that’s enough practice.”

Dean swallowed against the raw lust in those razor-sharp, intelligent, ocean-blue eyes, nodding once in agreement before throwing his car door open. His hand sank into his pocket the second he was upright, digging around for his house key. Distantly, he heard Castiel open his own door and close it a moment later. Where the hell was his key? He knew he grabbed it when he got dressed—

“I think you might want this.”

Dangling from the end of Castiel’s finger was Dean’s house key. Chagrined, he reached out and enfolded it in the palm of his hand, avoiding eye contact as his cheeks burned. “Yeah. Uh, thanks, Cas.”

“Cas?”

 _Shit_. Dean shrugged with forced nonchalance, shifting from foot to foot anxiously as he peeked at the dark-haired beauty through his lashes. “Yeah, your name’s kind of a mouthful, and I like giving out nicknames.”

Castiel stared straight at the dancer, those sharp eyes searching as if he could read the scripture of Dean’s very soul. He shifted, trying hard not to look like a guilty kid in the principal’s office.

“But if you don’t like it—”

The tail end of Dean’s sentence was cut off by a fierce kiss that made Dean’s knees go a little wobbly. There was no finesse, no grace. It was messy and dirty and Dean responded in kind. He nipped Cas’s lip playfully, a thrill racing across his nerves when the mild-mannered man _growled_. He barely even noticed they were moving until the handle of the door jammed itself into his spine.

Dean broke the kiss with a gasp. “Son of a bitch,” he groaned, rubbing the spot on his back and shifting away from his attacker.

“Are you all right?”

He chuckled at the adorably concerned tilt that bowed Cas’s mouth. “The doorknob jabbed me in self-defense. I think I’ll live. Besides, doors are easy enemies.” Dean held up the key, a playful twinkle in his eyes. “You stab them, and they get out of your way. Everybody goes home a winner.”

Castiel laughed. It was rich and sweet and Dean almost melted into a gooey puddle just listening to it. A manly gooey puddle, he thought fiercely, because he would _not_ describe himself as anything chick-flick-worthy.

Impulsively, the dancer leaned forward and caught Cas’s giggling mouth in a kiss. They found their rhythm much more easily this time, and the passionate heat rebounded in seconds.

With a gasp, the dark-haired angel pulled away, resting his forehead against Dean’s. It was at least thirty seconds before he recovered enough to speak.

“Perhaps you should vanquish your front door soon,” Cas murmured against Dean’s mouth, making every nerve ending sing in delighted anticipation, “I’d like to put my money where my mouth is without getting arrested.”

A hearty laugh covered the full body shudder that rocked the dancer to his core. “You got it.” With a cheeky grin, he backed Castiel up, turned on his heel, and slid the key home.

He was so ready for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Forgotten_Alice12: SORRY, I AM SO SORRY! D: There was supposed to be smut here, but I can't write six thousand words in a week AND work. :S I will make it happen in the next chapter, I promise! 
> 
> From both of us: Thank you for reading! Leave a comment if something isn't working, or even if you just wanna say hi! :D <3 <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes to a head.

Castiel’s stomach twisted itself into knots as a fresh burst of nervousness hit him like a tidal wave. He was with a stranger. At said stranger’s house. About to go inside and have casual, commitment-less sexual intercourse. With a complete and utter _stranger_. This wasn’t like him. No, this behavior was more in tune with Gabriel or Balthazar. Or, at least it was atypical for a sober Castiel. But it had been years since he’d picked someone up for a one-night stand, and he hadn’t even remembered it afterwards. What was he doing? What the hell had compelled him tonight, if not drink?

Before his cold feet could change his mind, Dean threw his front door open with a dramatic flourish.

“Welcome to Casa de Winchester,” he announced proudly, “Come on in. Make yourself at home.”

Faced with Dean’s natural charisma, Castiel couldn’t stop himself from cracking a smile. “Thank you,” he mumbled, stepping over the threshold.

“Sure thing, man. Mi casa es su casa, or whatever,” the brunet answered, shrugging out of his leather jacket and hanging it up near the door, “Seriously, though. You can come all the way in.”

“My apologies,” Castiel murmured, taking two steps further inside.

Dean shot him a warm smile over his shoulder, closing the door with one hand as his other searched blindly along the wall. “It’s cool. You don’t have to apologize.”

Another atonement rose to his lips, but he bit it back. Instead, he glanced around the dim space. It was too dark to see very much, but Castiel could definitely make out a staircase at the very back of the house—

A soft sound of triumph, a muffled click, and the space was suddenly ablaze with harsh, incandescent light. As soon as the editor’s eyes adjusted, his eyebrows shot up.

“So, this is our place,” Dean reiterated from somewhere on Castiel’s right.

“It is… messy,” Castiel murmured thoughtlessly.

The living room sprawled off to the left of the door, and even Gabriel would have been a little concerned. Boxes were stacked haphazardly in the corners of the room, making the narrow space seem even smaller. Discarded shirts and a few lonely socks decorated the well-worn area rug, accompanied by a smattering of wrappers and cans. The two mismatched armchairs and the television stand were the cleanest flat surfaces in the room. Even the tiny square of an end table had bottles precariously balanced along it’s edges, the little lamp in the center surrounded.

The urge to tidy rose up in Castiel for the second time that evening.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Dean laughed warmly, wrapping a strong hand around the editor’s bicep, “I don’t have a sexy maid outfit on hand. No cleaning for you.”

“How did—?”

“You get the same look in your eye that Mom used to,” he snickered, pulling Castiel toward him as he spoke, “We called it the ‘Clean or Die Stare.’”

Shyly, he smiled back, infected by Dean’s cheerful energy. “I think that might be a little extreme.”

Dean let out another pleasant, belly-deep laugh. “Maybe a little.” He tugged Castiel closer, humor making delicate lines around those jovial, green eyes. “I suppose I should distract you from my messy house.”

Nervously, the editor cleared his throat. “I can’t say I’d be opposed.”

His warm smile widened, making the dark-haired man’s knees wobble unsteadily. “I’m glad.” Dean leaned closer, brushing his nose against Castiel’s teasingly.

A needy whine slipped out of his throat. The noise was embarrassing and loud, but Castiel honestly couldn’t find it within himself to care too much. Primal hunger surged low in his belly, and all he cared about was satiating his craving. Which seemed to be for one lean brunet with sparkling green eyes and a silver tongue.

With a wicked grin that had Castiel’s insides quivering, the dancer tugged until their bodies were flush, their mouths just inches from each other.

“As much as I’d love to have you right here, I do have very nosy, somewhat elderly neighbors that seem to have nothing better to do than stare into my windows,” he murmured, his hands roaming closer and closer to the band of Castiel’s ridiculous pants, “So. I’m going to take you deeper into my humble, yet messy, home. Okay?”

“Okay,” he squeaked, internally cursing his voice for it’s complete and utter betrayal.

Dean smiled indulgently, his teeth gleaming in the brilliant light of his home. “Awesome.”

///

Dean was nervous. Not like Cas, but definitely still on edge. But he was a performer, dammit! Like hell he was gonna let something as stupid as shaky fingertips screw this up.

With sure hands and a devious smirk fixed firmly in place, Dean hooked his fingers under Cas’s jaw and pulled him into a toe-curling kiss. He came along willingly, his hands awkwardly coming to rest on the dancer’s forearms, a soft whine edging out of his throat. In an odd sort of way, Dean thought the dark-haired beauty’s obvious inexperience was kinda cute.

And he was definitely gonna to use it to his advantage.

Dean slid his hands down, wrapping his arms behind his gorgeous, messy-haired angel before taking a step back, coaxing Castiel forward—

Feet stepped on each other, legs tangled, and the only things that kept them from gracelessly falling to the floor were the back of an armchair, Dean’s spine, and two pairs of well-placed hands.

The dancer winced. A strip of his lower back throbbed, letting him know he’d be sporting a nice bruise in a few hours. He arched himself away from the offending chair… and straight into Cas.

Dean blinked, locking eyes with shocked blue ones. Recovering quickly, he shot the dark-haired angel a purposefully meek smile. “Oops?”

Castiel cracked a ghost of a smile, and Dean couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer stupidity of their situation. He felt like a blushing virgin. Dean Winchester had _never_ felt like a blushing virgin, not even when he still had his metaphorical hymen. So what the hell was going on?

“Should I assume you’ve rearranged your furniture recently?” Cas murmured, humor lacing the very edges of his serious, gravelly tone.

“That depends,” Dean flirted, “Would that help my case?”

“Significantly.”

“Then, yes, we moved the furniture a couple days ago,” he answered, schooling his expression into one of complete seriousness.

“Fascinating.” Castiel tilted his head to one side, taking in the room again. “You are messier than I first suspected,” he stated dryly, an amused twinkle in his eyes.

“This?” He made a vague gesture over his shoulder. “This is nothing,” Dean informed him, a suggestive smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “You should see the sorts of messes we can make in my bed.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows in a heated challenge before Dean could get embarrassed. “Care to put your money where your mouth is?”

Dean grinned, loving the sound of his words in his dark-haired angel’s mouth. “Always," he answered. With a quick kiss, he took Cas’s hand, maneuvered them away from the treacherous chair and toward the stairs. He didn’t look back. There was nothing stopping him from having Cas over the kitchen table, and he really wanted their first round to be on a comfortable, _stable_ surface. The table could be round two, he reminded himself sternly. Bedroom first.

The two of them stumbled up the stairs, hands still clasped awkwardly. As soon as his feet hit the landing, Dean ran the ten necessary steps it took to pass Sam’s door, skidding to a halt outside his own room. Castiel staggered after him, letting out a huff as he tripped into the dancer’s side. Impulsively, Dean used their momentum to pin Cas into his door and kiss him breathless.

When Castiel was finally forced to break away, the brunet nuzzled the underside of his jaw, worrying the thin skin playfully. Carefully, he wriggled a knee between Cas’s. “Feel good?”

“Dean,” he gasped, his breaths coming in short, ragged pants as Dean nudged upwards, his thigh rubbing right against seam of the blue-eyed angel’s leather pants.

The dancer smiled warmly against the corner of Cas’s jaw. “This is just a warm-up.” He leaned back, a cocky grin on his face. “You think you can handle the rest?”

Cas glared, his chin jerking upward in cool defiance. It sent a thrill down Dean’s spine, just barely overshadowing a cold stab of anxiety. A memory of insolent eyes and sharp words, cries of pain forced out by his own hands…

It was short-lived, quickly repressed with practised expertise.

Castiel didn’t even seem to notice his momentary lapse in attention. “Are you going to talk, or are you going to act?”

Dean wasn’t sure how he made that sentence both a reprimand and an incredibly hot innuendo, but it made his blood boil. He let his smile come on slow, a hint of carnal hunger curling low in his stomach. Oh, yeah, he was _so_ ready to play this game.

“Hmm,” Dean mused, staring intently at Cas’s mouth, “Let me think about it.” The dark-haired beauty’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and the dancer’s brain took all sorts of liberties with that one. “Pretty mouth…” He ducked in for a quick kiss, tugging on Cas’s lower lip playfully with his teeth. He groaned beautifully, his head falling against the door with a dull thunk. “Very responsive…” Both his hands wandered down Cas’s body, coming to rest against his firm ass. “Cute butt…” Dean nodded sagely, letting his fingers dig in lightly. Castiel growled low in his throat. The brunet smiled indulgently. “Okay, I’m convinced. Action sounds more fun.”

Before Cas could form a snarky retort, Dean twisted the knob of his bedroom door, leaning forward and expecting to kiss-walk him inside.

He _didn’t_ expect Castiel to push essentially all of his body weight back into the wood. With a few thunks and a few discordant swears, both men ended up on the floor. Cas was sprawled out on his back, his big, blue eyes enormous with fright. Dean had landed over him (thankfully, not _on top_ of him), his knees digging into the carpet on either side of slender hips. One hand was still clutching the doorknob, the other had hit the ground scant inches from Cas’s head. Dean was pretty sure he had friction burn, and not the fun kind.

Castiel snickered. “This is…”

“Awesome?” Dean supplied hopefully, unleashing his most charming grin.

“Not how I pictured this going,” he corrected, affection warming his words. With light fingers, he traced the shape of Dean’s lower lip. Little fireworks fizzled beneath Dean’s skin, each nerve rejoicing at the gentle contact.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry. “Me, either,” he mumbled absently as he watched Cas watch his fingers play against Dean’s skin. “Uh, we’re on the floor.”

The sardonic quirk of Castiel’s eyebrows definitely did _not_ make him blush. Or feel like an idiot. “Yes, Dean.”

“Shut up,” he growled, thankful for the half-darkness of his bedroom, “What I meant is that there’s a perfectly good, empty bed not two feet away.”

“Yes, and the earth is round.”

Dean finally released the doorknob, simply to slap Cas’s hand away from his face and pin it to the floor. He didn’t miss the way those irises shrunk down to tiny bands of silver-blue. The full-body shudder was pretty hard to miss, too. Grinning triumphantly, Dean whispered into the gorgeous man’s ear, “Shut up and get in my bed.”

Cas’s Adam’s apple worked for a second, his fingers curling into a loose fist before he cheekily growled, “Make me.”

Well. Dean Winchester didn’t need to be told twice. He lunged to his feet, using the hand clamped around Castiel’s wrist to haul him upright. Before all ten of his toes could touch the ground, the dancer threw him over his shoulder. He knew he was going a little caveman. Probably more caveman than he’d been in a long time. But if Cas’s appreciative groping was _any_ indication, he didn’t seem to mind. At all.

Unceremoniously, he dumped his dark-haired darling onto his mattress, prowling over him like a starved tiger. Another shudder ran through Castiel. Dean frowned, abruptly realizing that they were both maddeningly overdressed.

“Off,” he growled, tugging at the white shirt impatiently.

“Control yourself,” Cas murmured in a light tone as he sat up, easily batting away Dean’s demanding fingers to begin work on his buttons, “This is the only nice shirt I have left.”

Dean pouted but sat back on Castiel’s thighs and began loosening his tie anyway. “But I wanted to do that.”

“I don’t trust you to leave it in one piece.” He shot Dean a withering look as he unbuttoned his cuffs.

The blue tie was flung aside while Cas spoke by hands that didn’t particularly care where it landed. “You wound me,” the dancer gasped, dramatically throwing a hand to his chest.

Castiel shrugged out of his shirt and threw it over Dean’s head. “I get enough melodrama from my brothers. I don’t need it in bed, too.”

Dean’s brassy retort about mentioning family during foreplay died on his lips as he chucked Cas’s shirt aside. His skin was sun-gold, a few nearly-faded stripes from irregular tan lines patterning his upper arms. Lean, powerful muscle flexed beneath gorgeous skin, and Dean couldn’t help himself. Entranced, he let his fingertips skim down the miles of lean man that was Cas’s bare torso. “Damn, you’re gorgeous,” he sighed, letting his thumbs rest easily in the dips of Cas’s hipbones, hands molding to his lithe shape just above the waistband of his damnably sexy leather pants.

Cas blushed, the delectable color creeping across his cheeks, down his throat, and fanning delicately over his collarbones. Dean would have lost it right then and there if the dark-haired man hadn’t scowled, yanking his black shirt out of his slacks with feverish impatience.

“I would like to return the sentiment, but you still have far too many clothes on,” he growled, plucking open bottommost buttons on Dean’s shirt.

“Oh, hell, no,” Dean laughed, leaping off the bed and onto his feet. Cas’s scowl deepened as he began to follow, but the dancer held up a hand. “No way, man. You didn’t let _me_ help, so you’re just gonna have to wait.”

The phrase ‘if looks could kill’ skirted into Dean’s mind as Cas’s expression darkened into dangerous territory.

With a saucy wink, Dean began to unbutton his shirt with slow, painstaking care. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that…” He paused, staring upwards as if deep in thought. “… No, actually it _is_ because I don’t trust you.”

Before Dean had even glanced in Cas’s direction, the dark-haired angel had lunged upright, gripping the dancer by the hips and throwing him bodily into the mattress. All of Dean’s air escaped in a heavy exhale. He blinked as Cas threw a leg over his hips, settling just below his groin and glowered impressively.

“You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?” With quick, efficient fingers, he got to work opening the long line of shiny, black buttons.

Dean pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I think I’m adorable.”

Cas shot him another withering glare but didn’t speak as he shoved the dark shirt aside. Enthusiastic, Dean sat up to help.

Their heads knocked together. Dean fell back with a choked swear, clasping his forehead. “Ah, f—Cas, are you okay?” He blinked, glancing up through half-closed eyes.

“I believe I cut my lip,” he answered, the hand in front of his mouth muffling the words.

Dean felt the color drain out of his face. “Shit, hold on.” He stretched over to flip his bedside lamp on before easing them both upright and gingerly taking hold of Cas’s wrist. “Let me see.”

Cas let Dean move his hand away. Blood gleamed on his rapidly swelling lip, little ruby-red drops lazily beginning to roll toward his chin.

“That’s pretty wicked-looking, Cas.” Dean frowned in concern, a stab of guilt lancing through his chest. “That might need stitches.”

“Stitches?” Cas repeated, his eyes widening in fright.

The little wedge of guilt dug in even deeper. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and we’ll see,” he soothed, his thumb rubbing little circles against Cas’s wrist. The stitches were pretty much guaranteed, but he didn’t want to scare him too much.

“Okay,” Cas answered, his gravelly voice quavering the tiniest bit.

Dean had never felt more personally responsible for another human being’s distress. “Alright, hop up and we’ll get you sorted out,” he murmured encouragingly, patting Cas’s thigh as he slid off. Dean hauled himself up quickly, shrugging back into his shirt before he took his poor, bloody angel’s hand, and led him into the bathroom.

With practiced motions, he flipped on the light and knocked the toilet cover down. “Sit,” he ordered, pointing to the now-covered toilet. Meekly, Cas obeyed as Dean dug out an old, beat up first-aid kit out from under the sink.

Cas began swiping at the trails of blood, and Dean flushed. “Balls,” he hissed, digging out a ratty old washcloth and handing it to Cas, “Sorry, man.”

“No need to apologize,” he mumbled, swiping away the bright red drops that were creeping under his chin.

“Well, this is sorta my fault, anyway,” he mumbled, rummaging through the big, white box for gauze and butterfly bandages, “I thought you were farther away.”

“It was an accident.”

Dean sighed, snapping the lid shut with a little more force than necessary. “This entire night has been a nightmare.” He turned, kneeling on the bath mat in front of his blue-eyed angel.

With little prompting, Cas surrendered the bloodstained towel and sat still as a statue, letting Dean fuss over him. He winced when the gauze pad brushed against his torn lip.

With a frustrated sigh, Dean laid the blood-darkened square on the floor and cupped the dark-haired man’s face in both his hands. “I’m gonna have to pull on your lip a little to see if it’s a gaping cut,” he warned, looking Cas in the eye seriously.

Cas swallowed thickly. “Okay.”

“You can squeeze my shoulder if you need to,” Dean murmured, letting his thumbs brush reassuringly against Cas’s cheekbones.

His trembling hand rested against Dean’s right shoulder. “Okay,” he repeated, giving the skin beneath his fingers a tentative squeeze.

“Okay,” Dean parroted, taking a deep breath in before resting his thumbs on either side of the cut and tugging gingerly. Cas’s hand clamped down hard on his shoulder, his face twisting in pain.

Yeah, definitely gaping.

Carefully, he let go of the cut, letting the backs of his fingers brush soothingly against Cas’s cheek. “Cas, I have to take you to the ER.”

The gorgeous man blinked up at him desperately, his blue eyes bright with tears of pain. “You have to?”

“Yes,” he answered firmly, leaving no room for argument as he rolled to his feet. He would _not_ leave a scar on this beautiful man. “I’m gonna call Sam, and then we’ll leave. Okay?”

Cas nodded, blinking away the extra moisture in his eyes. Apologetically, he handed the washcloth back to Cas before hurrying into the hall to call his brother.

Sam picked up after three rings. “Dean? Is everything okay?”

Dean laughed dryly. “Not particularly.”

“Did you get a little too enthusiastic with your teeth again?”

“Dammit, Sammy, that was one freakin’ time!”

His gargantuan brother snorted. “One _very memorable_ time.”

He sighed in irritation. “Look, I just wanted to tell you that it’s safe to come home. Cas busted his lip, so I’m taking him to the ER.”

“Jesus,” Sam groaned, “Okay. But you should really be more careful with people you take home. You’re pretty good at breaking them.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“Make me, jerk.”

Dean ended the call with an impatient jab to the red button. He was _not_ good at breaking people, dammit! Two out of… everyone else was _not_ a bad record. Grumbling to himself about annoying little brothers, he darted into his room to grab an old flannel button-up for Cas.

Even if the mood was six feet under and _rotting_ , Dean couldn’t have Cas bleeding all over his only nice shirt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Alice: THEY HAVE MINDS OF THEIR OWN, PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!! *hides in the TARDIS*
> 
> From both of us: We are so, so, SO sorry this took so long! It took a lot of reworking to get it to be in character and good and readable. It took a LOT longer than either of us ever anticipated, and we are really very sorry. Our update days will change to Thursdays now, and it might be every two weeks instead of every week, but we'll try to keep everything consistent from here on out. :D
> 
> So, to make it up to you... we're asking for your input! Leave us a comment telling us something you'd like to see in the fic! Whether it's a line or a character or anything you'd like to see, let us know! You can also chat with us on our Tumblr pages. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick hospital trip and a proposition.

Castiel _loathed_ hospitals. They reeked of disinfectant and dredged up far too many unpleasant memories. The lengthy waits, the paper-thin sheets, the bright lights, the pale people in the rock-hard beds… they made him incredibly uncomfortable. He would have gladly ridden across a hundred pothole-filled roads—bumping and jostling his throbbing lip the whole way—than be at a hospital.

Also, there were pointy things there. He didn’t particularly care for pointy things. Especially if they were going to be passing through his skin. By the time they reached the deceptively innocuous building, he was about to burst at the seams. He just hoped he didn’t have too much time to overthink anything…

To his surprise (which was promptly followed up with a twinge of dread), the waiting room was fairly empty. Castiel blinked. There was a couple whispering in the far corner of the room, an elderly woman sleeping in an armchair, and a couple of people checking in, but otherwise, it was essentially bare.

“It’s so quiet,” he mumbled thoughtlessly, his words sloshing together messily against the towel. The bleeding had stopped several minutes ago, but it was comforting to cover the ugly, sticky mess that brought them to this godforsaken place.

Dean smiled at him indulgently as he ushered him toward the check-in counter. “It _is_ one-thirty in the morning in the middle of the week.”

“Fair point.” Castiel felt a flush start to rise into his cheeks. He willed it away, hoping that Dean wouldn’t notice—

“Hey, are you okay? You look a little pink,” Dean asked, concern lacing his tone as his fingers lightly brushed against the editor’s cheek.

Castiel had to force himself _not_ to lean into that simple touch. Or blush harder. “Fine. Just… worried,” he answered lamely. Not quite the truth, but close enough to count.

Dean winced. “Look, man—”

“Next.”

Both men jumped, glancing toward the woman behind the counter. She looked over her glasses, a lock of grizzled, frizzy hair falling into her patient eyes.

“Can I help you two?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Dean apologized, resting his hand against the editor’s lower back and guiding him forward. Castiel felt a little calmer, just from that warm, gentle touch. “He busted up his lip.”

Her warm, brown eyes zeroed in on the stained rag. “May I see?”

Haltingly, Castiel let his arm fall, exposing the small tear. He hadn’t really looked at it, but he supposed it was an ugly patch of dried blood and swollen, bruising skin.

“Do you have your insurance card on you?”

As he worked his wallet out of his pocket, Dean’s thumb began to stroke soothingly against his spine. An inappropriate heat came to life low in Castiel’s belly, which he hastily smothered. When he finally managed to wrench his wallet free, he made sure his elbow smacked into the dancer’s side.

Dean’s thumb froze instantly.

Silent gratitude flowed through him as he handed over his card, re-covered his wound with his cloth, and answered her questions. ( _No, my home address hasn’t changed. It’s only a two, at most. A small bag of ice would be appreciated, thank you_.)

Once she finished entering the data, she smiled politely at the two of them. “It’ll probably be another half hour or so before we can get you in. We’ll call you back in a few minutes to talk with the triage nurse before a doctor sees you.”

“Sounds great.” Dean smiled at her warmly, his thumb starting to rub short, soothing, _hot_ lines against Castiel’s spine again.

“Just a second.” She jumped up, hurrying around the corner to grab a small ice pack. “This should help with any swelling.”

“Thank you,” the editor murmured, wrapping the bag in his stained washcloth and pressing it against his lip. Dean led him into the waiting area.

“How’s it feeling?” Those pretty green eyes were alight with concerned curiosity and something Castiel couldn’t quite read.

“Fine,” he answered quietly. He mourned the loss of Dean’s warm, comforting hand the moment they sat down. “Still tender.”

“Look, man, I’m sorry. This is—”

Castiel clapped a hand over the dancer’s mouth, fixing him with a calm, reprimanding look. “It was an _accident_. I don’t blame you for this.”

Dean huffed. “Yeah, well, _I_ blame me.”

A half grin tugged at one corner of the editor’s mouth. “This is still one of my better dates.”

“Seriously?” Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Sitting in the ER waiting room is one of your _better_ ones?”

“The first time I ever brought someone home with the intention of having sex, I found out they had a severe cat allergy. To _my_ cat.”

The dancer winced. “That’s rough.”

Castiel nodded in agreement. “It was probably for the best. He ended up getting arrested a month later for stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars from a children’s cancer charity.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Do you remember the Blake Sowers trial?”

Dean gaped. “You did _Blake Sowers?_ ”

“Almost did,” Castiel corrected. He could feel his face twisting in mild disgust. “If his third base skills were any indication, I didn’t miss out on anything.”

The grin on Dean’s face could only have been described as shit-eating. “I get it, man. You can tell a _lot_ about a guy from the way he handles the bases.”

“Oh?” Castiel cocked his head, hoping he looked mildly curious instead of desperately attentive.

“Yeah.” Casually, Dean scooped up the editor’s free hand and toyed with each finger as he talked. Castiel had to work hard to keep focused. “Knowing how to play a body like a fine-tuned guitar is a skill. You have to work on it if you want to improve.” A mischievous grin flirted with the corners of his mouth. “You have to know your own body very, very well before you can learn another.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows sardonically. “Are you implying that Blake only needed to masturbate to be a better lover?”

Dean laughed hard. “Oh, shit,” he gasped, swiping tears out of the corners of his eyes, “Fuck, no!” Another bout of laughter caught hold of him, and even Castiel began smiling at his infectious laugh. “God,” he wheezed, “Here I am, trying to seduce you all over again, and you go and say something like _that_.”

Castiel blinked, feeling his smile fade as shock raced through him. “You’re… trying to seduce me?”

A faint blush crept up Dean’s face, but his cheeky grin didn’t waver. “Well, tonight went to shit pretty much as soon as it started.” His smile cracked and fell away. “And I hurt you—”

“Accidentally,” the editor corrected firmly, glaring.

Dean raised his hands in surrender. “I know, but I still feel guilty.” He pressed a finger to Castiel’s ice pack when he opened his mouth to protest. “Can I finish, please?”

He waited patiently, staring at the dancer until he continued on.

“Anyway, I’d really like to see you again. Y’know, to make it up to you.” He paled suddenly, his eyes going impossibly wide. Castiel was worried they’d fall right out of his head. “If you want. I mean, you don’t _have_ to or anything—”

The editor held up his hand, halting the intense flow of words while he processed what exactly just happened. Hope sprang up inside him, but he tamped it down. He had to be sure. “Are you asking me for a rain check?”

“Uh… pretty much,” Dean answered, rubbing the back of his neck nervously as even his ears flushed pink.

A rush of joy flooded Castiel all at once. He was being offered another opportunity with this beautiful, witty, _clever_ man. Before he could really give it any thought, he heard himself actually flirt successfully with another human being.

“You’ll have to buy me a drink, first.”

Dean smiled winningly. “Hey, if that’s all it takes, then you’re a pretty cheap date.”

“Then I’d like dinner, too,” he shot back, a thrill racing down his spine. Cheekiness didn’t usually come naturally to the editor, but the euphoria of being given a second chance with the handsome dancer-bartender was making him bold.

Said handsome man’s smile morphed into a look of pure triumph. “Dinner it is, then.” He pulled out his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. “When are you free?”

Castiel beamed, barely wincing when the motion pulled his cut. This couldn’t get any better. “How about tomorrow?”

Dean’s eyes flicked down to the ice pack, pursing his lips pensively. “As much as I am _completely_ on board with your reckless enthusiasm, we’d better give it a few days.” He glanced up, unleashing a sinful smirk that had shivers running down Castiel’s spine. “I’d like to have dessert afterwards.”

Okay. This was _definitely_ making it better. “Is this the more athletic kind of dessert?”

The look that followed put his smirk to shame. “Yep.” He reached out to cup Castiel’s cheek in his palm, letting his thumb brush tantalizingly against the corner of the editor’s mouth. “So you’d better be at one hundred percent before we eat.”

It took a few seconds for his brain to come back from fantasyland and form a response that was appropriate for the public. “It can’t take much more than a week to heal, can it?” He didn’t care if he sounded desperate. The promise— _promise_ , not _hope_ —of sex with Dean was enough to make _anyone_ a little less than rational.

“God, I hope not,” Dean groaned, letting his head fall back against the seat. Castiel couldn’t help but take in the view as the dancer swallowed.

He really tried not to let his imagination run away with that one. Success, however, was not in the cards.

“So… it’d probably be a good idea for us to swap numbers,” Dean mumbled casually, staring up at the ceiling as if it held the answers to life. As if his cheeks weren’t reddening by the second. Castiel bit back a grin.

“Probably,” he answered in his most offhanded tone, feigning nonchalance, “It’s about the only thing we can do to ensure a meeting.”

“Shut up,” Dean growled, shooting Castiel a withering look, “Do you want my number or not?”

He didn’t know what possessed him. But before he knew it, he was looking Dean directly in the eye, a dead serious look on his face.

“I want more than that,” he answered evenly, plucking the phone out of the dancer’s slack fingers as he gaped, “But this will do for now.”

Dean let out a strangled sound that the editor chose to ignore, typing in his number as slowly as he dared before pressing it firmly back into the brunet’s hand. His callous-roughened fingers tightened dangerously around the device. A devious glint flashed in his eyes just milliseconds before he reached out, sliding his hand toward Castiel’s lap.

Oxygen froze in his lungs as those dexterous fingers caressed the line of his hip, tracing the blocky shape of his phone and flirting with more intimate territory.

His mossy eyes smoldered in an unfairly sexy way. “Take this out for me, would you, angel?”

Fire raced under his skin and pooled in his groin so fast it almost hurt. Castiel sucked in a couple steadying breaths, grasping desperately for any semblance of composure.

“I want to put my hands _all_ over it.”

The editor let out a huff of air as he knocked away those teasing digits. “Christ…”

“To clarify, I want your _phone_ out, not—”

Castiel smacked a hand over the dancer’s mouth, trying to cover his grin with a scowl. “I know what you meant! Just… be patient!”

Dean smiled under his palm, his beautiful eyes gleaming playfully.

Castiel silently vowed to make the dancer pay for all of his teasing. In full.

///

Nothing was better than getting Cas all hot and bothered. It was just so damn _easy_ , and he was so receptive to it. The delicate way his blush crept over his cheeks, coupled with the barest flutter of eyelashes and shocked breath of air? Beautiful.

“Here.” He held out his phone, obviously avoiding eye contact.

Dean grinned cheekily, winking as he plucked the phone right out of Cas’s open hand. “Thanks, gorgeous.”

Castiel’s flush darkened, creeping further down his face. The unbuttoned collar of his borrowed plaid shirt showed off the faint pinkish color that was beginning to bloom across his collarbones.

Dean could have kicked himself for screwing up this evening. With practiced ease, he hid his sulkiness behind a cocky veneer, entering his number and passing it back to Cas with a dramatic flourish. “One ten-digit rain check. All yours, handsome.”

As he gingerly took it back, something weird happened. His pretty eyes narrowed, gaze suddenly laser-sharp as it flickered over Dean’s face. He opened his mouth, ready to ask if there was something on his face.

“You’re still irritated.” Cas’s head fell to one side. Somehow, the laser-look got even more intense. “Why?”

His defensive retort balanced on his tongue, held back only by the appearance of the woman with the salt-and-pepper hair. “Mr. Novak?”

Castiel stood immediately, wedging his phone back into his pocket. “Yes?”

“Follow me, please.”

Dean scrambled to his feet to follow, nearly tripping in his haste. The lady was a freakin’ speed demon, too. Seriously, he had to bite his cheek to keep from asking where the fire was.  

She stopped and knocked on a door, speaking as she turned. “He’s right in—” Her eyes widened as she took in two people instead of one. “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t come back with him.”

Cas looked completely taken aback. And a little freaked. “Why?”

“It’s protocol,” she explained calmly, “You’re not a minor, and he is not part of your immediate family. I can’t allow you back.”

Anger had Dean opening his mouth, ready to defend himself—and Cas—but the dark-haired man beat him to it.

“I understand. But he’s not going to be rational, and I…” Castiel faltered, his gaze flicking down before squaring his shoulders and looking her straight in the eye. “I would like to hold his hand when the doctor stitches up my lip. I have an irrational fear of sharp objects, and he can keep me calm.”

Both the woman and Dean stared. The dancer didn’t know what she was thinking—hell, he didn’t really even fucking _care_ —but he felt an irrational sort of pride. He was bullshitting this lady to get his way, and he was doing it _masterfully_.

As if to solidify his point, Cas reached out and grabbed onto Dean’s wrist before sliding his fingers down to intertwine their hands.

Sammy would have been rolling on the floor. Or recording this. Because Dean wasn’t a PDA sort of guy, and this felt like the most intimate thing he’d ever done with _anybody_ in public. And all they were doing was _holding hands_.

Seriously, what was with this night?!

The door swung open, a puzzled young man peeking out, his dark gold hair flopping into his fair eyes. All three people in the hall blinked at him.

“Hey, Maggie. Can I help you?”

“Alfie?” Castiel asked incredulously.

A jolt ran down the dancer’s spine as the kid—Alfie—turned, blinking at the dark-haired man before a smile lit his face like a goddamn Christmas tree. “Oh, hi, Castiel! Hi, Dean!”

The dancer’s forehead crumpled in confusion and mild annoyance. He had no damn clue who this kid was. How did he know both him _and_ Cas?

The kid’s smile fractured as he took in Cas’s ice pack. “Oh, geez, I’m sorry!” He hopped aside, gesturing for them to enter with an awkward, worried movement. “Please, come in.”

“Sam—” Maggie began, a reprimand in her tone.

He held up a hand, grinning in a sweet way that miraculously _didn’t_ make Dean want to puke. “It’s okay. Castiel and Dean are friends of mine. I’m sure he’s just hoping to help Cas out.” Alfie (or Sam or whatever the hell his real name even was) smiled at them warmly, showing off his perfectly straight, white teeth. “Right?”

Well, Dean wasn’t gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. If this would get him in… “Kid’s right,” he answered firmly, squeezing Cas’s hand, “He helped me out of a tough spot. What kinda person would I be if I didn’t return the favor?”

Maggie’s glare was half-hearted at best. “Fine. But it’s _your_ fault if they end up being smugglers.”

Sam and/or Alfie actually traced a little ‘x’ over his heart. “They’re good guys, I promise.”

She sighed in defeat, warmth and kindness in her tired eyes. “It’s your career, kiddo.” With a parting wave, she turned and stalked back toward the front desk.

He smiled after her before turning back to Dean and Cas and ushering them in. “Sorry about that. Security’s been really tight around here the last few weeks.” He lowered his voice. As if anyone could hear him besides the two that he was freakin’ talking to. “People have been taking drugs that aren’t prescribed to them, so we’re supposed to be on high alert.” He gestured to the exam table and extra chairs. “Please, sit.”

“Is this a rare occurrence?” Cas asked, his head falling to one side curiously as the two of them took their respective seats.

The kid shrugged absently as he fiddled with his computer. “Not really. It’s just weird combinations of things. Really mild painkillers, anti-depressants, migraine meds… those sorts of things.” He cleared his throat softly, shooting a worried glance at Cas. “But I digress. What happened to your lip, Castiel?”

“I knocked heads with Dean, and his won,” he quipped dryly.

Dean would have laughed if the subtle reminder didn’t send another twinge of guilt through him.

Alfie (or whatever) winced, pulling out a pair of latex gloves and moving toward Cas. “Can I see?”

Wordlessly, he moved the ice pack away.

The kid frowned as the dancer’s stomach turned. Bruises were beginning to come to life beneath the dark slice of dried blood, and his lip was definitely fat, despite the ice. Dean’s fingers tightened into fists, a mantra of _my fault_ swirling in his head.

“Well, that’s not very bad at all,” Sam/Alfie murmured, gingerly poking and prodding and cleaning, “It’ll need a stitch or two, sure, but it should heal up nicely.” He turned, snapping off the gloves to type something up on his computer.

“It will?” Hope crept into Dean’s voice as relief flooded him.

“Oh, yeah,” the kid confirmed, shooting Dean an amiable smile before turning back to his screen, “It’s a straight cut, so the scarring should be minimal. And it’ll fade quickly.” He finished up his notes and turned back toward them. “In fact, if the cut had been a few millimeters shorter, you probably wouldn’t have needed stitches at all, but it went outside your lip. The skin underneath doesn’t always match up quite right, if you let it heal on it’s own.”

Dean’s relief faded fast when he noticed that Cas was slowly tensing up into a mass of nervous energy while he chatted with Nurse Alfie-Sam. His angel swallowed, his hands clasped together so firmly his knuckles were white.

“So, how soon can we see a doctor?” The dancer asked casually, shooting Cas another remorseful look. The dark haired beauty paled but set his jaw, creating a veneer of calm to hide behind.

Dean didn’t think he could feel guiltier than he did right then.

Before the kid could reply, there was a knock on the door before a girl—a very pretty girl, Dean noted absently—poked her head around the door. “Hey, Sam. Miss Moseley just freed up.”

He smiled in relief. “Oh, excellent! Is there anyone that needs her right this second?”

She pursed her lovely lips thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Good! Would you take Castiel and Dean back to her?”

Her fiery ponytail bobbed as she nodded, a kind set to her face. “Sure. Just let me grab a drink of water first, okay?”

Sam-but-also-Alfie nodded in assent, and she darted out, her bright hair nearly catching in the door. Dean turned toward the kid, a question leaping out of his mouth before he could even think about stopping it.

“So, is your name Sam or Alfie?”

The kid blushed up to his hairline. “Oh, uh… yes? I mean, they’re both my name,” he elaborated hastily when Dean felt his confused face activate, “Samandriel is my first name, and Alfred is my middle name.”

“Oh, man,” Dean sighed, shooting the poor kid a sympathetic look, “I bet middle school was rough.”

Samandriel shrugged lightheartedly. “That’s when I started going by Sam, actually. Alfie was okay when I was younger, but… Lesser of two evils and stuff.” He began tidying his space, a ghost of a grin on his face. “Besides, middle school is rough for _everyone_.”

Dean couldn’t help but feel a rush of affection for the kid. “Ain’t that the truth,” he murmured.

The redhead stuck her head into the room. “Ready?”

Dean locked eyes with Cas, hoping that he could see the guilt and support written across the dancer’s face as he stood.

Castiel took in an unsteady breath, sliding off of the exam table. “As I’ll ever be.”

Silently, Dean offered the only comfort he could think of. He held out his hand and waited.

The poor guy took it with a grateful sigh, lacing their fingers together as he smushed himself against Dean’s side and turned toward Alfie. “Thank you. For everything.”

He blushed. “Really, it was nothing.”

Dean reached out and patted the kid’s shoulder. “Nah, Cas is right. Thanks, man.”

The girl smiled kindly as Alfie ducked his head. “Follow me, please.”

They did as instructed. Castiel stayed glued to Dean’s side, his lovely eyes downcast. Tension practically radiated off of him, and each step seemed to make it worse.

Dean bumped into his shoulder, startling him out of his nervous reverie. “So. Where do you know Alfie from?”

Cas blinked. “He was at SPN tonight. He watched the show.”

That was somehow very embarrassing. And that meant a lot coming from a guy who took off his clothes for a living. “Oh.” A wave of jealous, possessive energy crashed over him. “Did he, uh… hit you up?”

Another blink. “No. He informed me that you might have been in trouble. If he hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t have showed up when I did.”

Dean felt color creep into his cheeks. Yet another stab of guilt lodged itself in his chest. “Oh.” Now he just felt like an asshole for even being _suspicious_ of the kid. “Well. Guess I’ll have to get him put on SPN’s VIP list.”

Cas’s face lit up, a hint of shock hovering just behind his eyes. “You’d do that for him?”

“Cas, the guy saved my ass. Probably in both the literal and figurative senses,” he tacked on thoughtfully, masterfully repressing a shudder of disgust as he remembered Azazel’s taunting, “That’s the very _least_ I can do for him.”

The girl stopped, knocking before pulling the door open. “Go on in. Doctor Moseley’ll be here—”

“ _Is_ here.”

All three of them jumped as a woman poked her head out of the room.

The girl looked baffled. “Miss Moseley, how did you know which room?”

“Darlin’, when you’ve been doin’ this as long as I have, you pick up on things,” the woman answered matter-of-factly, bustling out to size up both boys. She brightened the instant she saw Dean. “Well, I’ll be damned. Is that you, Dean Winchester?”

Shock raced through him. He was used to being recognized—he didn’t exactly hide from the public—but very few people actually called him by his full name. “Um, yeah, I’m… me.”

Her face softened into an almost smile. “Oh, you grew up handsome. And you were one goofy-lookin’ kid, too.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t place you,” he admitted, gesturing helplessly in the wake of her compliment-turned-insult.

“I’d be impressed if you could,” she answered, gesturing for the boys to come in. They obliged, taking their appropriate seats. “You were just about five the last time I got a good look at you.” She thanked the redheaded girl and closed the door behind her. “Now,” she announced, clapping her hands together and rounding on Cas, “You must be my patient.”

He nodded once. “And you must be my doctor.”

She smiled, her dark eyes twinkling. “You’ve got a mouth on you. I like it.” She offered a hand. “I’m Doctor Moseley, but you can call me Missouri.”

“Castiel Novak,” he replied, shaking her hand firmly.

“And you need stitches?”

He paled, but otherwise showed no signs of distress. “Yes.”

Missouri nodded brusquely, grabbing a pair of latex gloves and some individual alcohol wipes from her desk. “Let’s get you cleaned up so I can work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured. Dean watched as his shoulders began to tense.

“Dean, you pull your chair over and hold this boy’s hand,” she admonished sternly, shooting him a look as she separated out one sterile wipe, “The poor thing’s shakin’ like a leaf.”

Castiel opened his mouth, but Dean was already dragging his chair over and flopping into it. He contemplated propping his feet up…

“Boy, you put your foot on my desk, I’m ‘a whack you with a spoon.”

He froze, shocked that she knew, but heard himself whine, “I didn’t do anything!”

She set her jaw. “Well, you were thinkin’ about it.”

“You don’t even have a spoon,” he grumbled, reaching out to twine his fingers with Cas’s. He squeezed, glancing up with a grin when the pressure was returned.

Castiel smiled shyly back, relaxing marginally in the wake of their playful banter.

Dean raised his hand that was intertwined with Cas’s, bringing it to his lips to press a gentle kiss to the back of his angel’s hand. He hoped it came across as the comfort and apology it was meant to be. Not that he’d been kidding about seducing him, but this wasn’t the time, and it sure as hell wasn’t the place.

He seemed to understand, though. His meek smile became more grateful, but there was another emotion there that Dean couldn’t quite put a finger on…

“All right, Castiel,” Missouri sighed, settling herself into her chair, “Keep your head this way.” She touched his chin, holding it firmly for a second before going back to her prep work, “I’m gonna clean you up, numb your lip, and sew it up. Won’t take more’n five minutes.”

The dark-haired man nodded stiffly, his skin losing what little color it had recovered. “Okay.”

Dean was getting really tired of all these guilty little twinges, but they were nothing if not persistent. He squeezed Cas’s hand, a subtle reminder that he had something to hang on to. And if the guy broke one of his metacarpals, well… Dean sure as hell wasn’t gonna hold it against him.

Missouri nodded to their conjoined hands. “You’d best take it easy on Dean’s hand when we get started. I’m not too good at straightenin’ out broken bones.”

Before the brunet could tell her to knock it off with the weirdly accurate statements, she ripped open an alcohol pad and swiped it across Cas’s busted lip. He flinched hard, fingers twitching spasmodically against Dean’s. She frowned, dabbing at the wound a couple more times to clear away all the mostly-dry blood. He managed to stay pretty still, but the slight grimaces that twisted his face were dead giveaways.

Dean almost felt sick with self-loathing.

“All done with that part, honey,” Missouri murmured, patting Cas’s shoulder soothingly before reaching for a small, plastic container and a cotton swab, “Now, I’m gonna put this on.” She shot him a no-nonsense look. “Don’t lick it, and don’t let it touch your other lip.”

Cas nodded once, cheeks turning ash-gray with unease. Anxiously, Dean’s thumb began rubbing little, comforting circles on Cas’s wrist. He looked like he was ready to pass out. Maybe puke. Or both. Either way, it made Dean nervous.

She stuck the swab into the little jar, twirling it around as she talked. “This is good stuff. Can’t feel anythin’ afterwards.” Her pinky touched his cheek, steadying her hand as she smudged the thick gel onto his lip. “Should start workin’ real quick.”

Cas sighed, his fingers loosening a bit as his eyes closed. Relief was evident in his face, although he was still pretty tense. Dean brought his hand up for another kiss, nuzzling the soft skin when he gave an appreciative squeeze.

Missouri slipped on a pair of latex gloves then poked the skin near his cut. Cas didn’t even flinch. “Can you feel that?”

“Hmm?” He opened an eye curiously.

She nodded, withdrawing her finger. “You’re numb. Better close your eyes,” she added over her shoulder as she turned to grab her things, “Next part’s not gonna be your cuppa tea.”

Cas paled, but obediently clamped his eyes shut, mimicking the tension with his hand until Dean felt his bones creak.

With nimble, efficient fingers, Missouri threaded her needle, pressed the edges of Cas’s cut together, and slid it into his skin. Dean watched with curiosity and mild awe as she neatly knotted up the stitch before snipping the ends.

“One more,” she murmured absently, sliding the needle through and fastening it off in one quick pass. One neat snick of the scissors, and she was done. Carefully, she cleaned off Cas’s lip and began to put away her things. “You can open your eyes, honey.”

He didn’t move. Castiel stayed still as a statue, his iron grip not letting up on Dean’s hand.

“It’s safe to look,” the dancer assured quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to the freckle on the back of Cas’s wrist, “All the evidence is gone.”

“ _All_ of it?”

Dean smiled against his skin, hoping to soothe away the trepidation that rattled his gruff voice. “Scout’s honor.”

One beautiful, blue eye peeked out through his lashes. Warily, he blinked both of them open.

Missouri shot him a sympathetic look. “You have prankster brothers, don’ you?”

Both boys blinked at her in shock, but she just flapped a hand dismissively.

“It’s clear as crystal. Don’ you go worryin’ your pretty heads ‘bout it.” She turned her attention back to Cas. “Now, you need to take it easy on that. No gum-flappin’ like this one.” She jerked a thumb at Dean (who growled back an affronted “Hey!”). “You hear?”

Castiel gave a sharp nod.

She cocked a hip, a grin hovering on her lips. “Not gon’ be much trouble for you, huh?”

Castiel nodded once, a shrewd tilt to his mouth.

“Didn’t think so. Just keep it clean, an’ it’ll heal just fine,” she murmured absently, jotting something down on her desk, “The numbness’ll wear out in about fifteen minutes. Take a couple Tylenol or somethin’ if it gets sore. Ice for the fat lip you got.” She tapped her lip with the pen. Dean swore he saw a hint of lipstick on the sleek metal. “That’s all the advice I can give.”

“How long until the stitches come out?” Dean asked quickly, giving Cas’s hand a quick squish.

“Well, now, that’s the question,” she replied, cocking her head to one side as she passed Cas the slip of paper she’d written on, “Depends on your care, Castiel. But I’ll set up an appointment ‘bout two weeks out.”

Both men nodded as they digested that. _Two weeks?_ Dean sighed inwardly. He supposed could handle fourteen days. For Cas.

Missouri shooed them out after that, demanding that Dean and Sam come visit her at home sometime before she let the dancer leave. He agreed hesitantly, and she’d slapped a business card into his hand before stalking off.

Dean tucked the card into his wallet without really reading it. “Okay, then.” He turned to Cas, scrutinizing his face. “You still good?”

Cas nodded, a mildly dazed look in his eyes.

“You sure?”

Another nod, followed up with a long-suffering stare.

“Okay. Good,” he murmured, his insides still twisting uncomfortably, “Uh, would it be all right if I drove you home?”

Cas shot him a Mona Lisa smile, blue eyes twinkling before taking his hand. “Yes.”

“Great,” he answered enthusiastically, twining their fingers, “Let’s blow this joint.”

He laughed, and Dean would be lying if he said the sound didn’t warm his insides a little. “I couldn’t agree more.”

He bumped his shoulder into Cas’s as they headed back out. “Not a fan of hospitals?”

Cas shook his head violently. His bright eyes dimmed morosely, and Dean heard alarm bells in his head.

“Neither am I,” he whispered conspiratorially, a serious look pasted onto his face, “But airplanes are my big phobia.”

It had it’s intended effect. Cas blinked at him curiously, his vivacious light coming back to life. “Airplanes?”

Dean shrugged nonchalantly. “I know you’re more likely to die in a car than a plane, but I don’t trust them. Never have, probably never will.”

Castiel let his head fall to one side thoughtfully. “That’s reasonable.”

“You think so?” Dean asked, unlocking his baby and opening Cas’s door for him.

He shot the brunet a sardonic look, lifting his brows in a look that Dean took to mean ‘Really?’

“I know, I know, you’re not broken,” the dancer placated with a laugh, “Just… let me be a gentleman for once in my life, okay?”

The dark-haired man tilted his head back, another challenging look flitting across his face before he climbed in.

Purely out of habit, he smiled, cupping Cas’s cheek and thumbing his cheekbone. “Thank you.”

Before Dean could panic, his angel rolled his eyes playfully, knocking his hand aside.

He laughed, a wave of relief washing over him. “Okay, okay, I’m getting in.”

Cas closed the door smartly as Dean jogged around and flung himself in. He hadn’t screwed anything up beyond repair. Everything was still okay. He turned the key, feeling Baby roar to life underneath him. “All right. Now is your chance to boss me around.” He winked, shooting Cas a cheeky grin. “Which way, hot stuff?”

“Right turn,” he directed, his beautiful eyes sparkling with laughter.

They drove in companionable silence, broken only by Cas’s occasional instructions and Dean’s smartass comments. When Cas finally told him to park, Dean was more relaxed than he’d been all day. And a little bummed.

Cas unbuckled, throwing his door open. Dean scrambled out after him, drawing a curious head-tilted look.

Dean shrugged. “I’d like to walk you to your door.”

He rolled his eyes and stalked off.

“Oh, come on! I’m trying to be a good date,” the brunet whined, pushing out his lip in an over-exaggerated pout.

“You just want a kiss at the door,” Cas taunted primly over his shoulder, his hips swaying flirtatiously, “And I can’t even give you one.”

Dean groaned, a new stab of guilt in his gut. “Low blow, man. Don’t make me feel worse than I already do.”

He threw the dancer a coy smile over his shoulder. “I simply expect you to repay me for this night in full when I’ve healed.”

Oh, man. Dean was gonna have all sorts of wet dreams about this stupidly sexy bastard.

Cas leaned against the door of his house, an expectant look on his face. “This is my door.”

“I can see that,” he retorted, shoving his hands into his pockets, “So, uh… this is goodnight, then, I guess.”

“Indeed,” he answered, raising his dark brows.

Dean shuffled a couple steps closer. “Will I get to see you before you get your stitches taken out?”

He blinked. “Would you like to?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

Cas looked completely shocked.

“If you don’t, it’s cool,” Dean backpedaled hastily, rubbing his neck nervously as his stomach dropped, “I mean, I won’t be upset or whatever—”

He pressed his fingers over the dancer’s motor mouth to halt his words before withdrawing with a beatific smile. “I’d love to go on a date with you, Dean.”

Euphoria exploded inside him. “Oh. Awesome.” He grinned back, his heart warm with delight. “I’ll text you.”

Cas beamed back.

“Goodnight, Cas,” Dean murmured, leaning in to give him a kiss. Then froze. “Uh…” Embarrassed, he kissed his angel’s forehead.

Castiel smiled sweetly at him, patting Dean’s cheek in his hand. “Goodnight, Dean.” He turned away, sliding his key into the door.

Dean blushed, ducking as his head to hide his goofy smile as he floated all the way back to Baby and drove himself home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry!! This chapter was HUGE. And it refused to be short and concise, like we wanted it to be. So we let it run where it would, and this monster is the product.
> 
> Our schedules are gonna get a little hairy soon. School will be starting, so we cannot guarantee we'll be able to stick to our regular schedule. (Not that we've done such a great job... Alice apologizes!) We're still hoping to post twice a month, but we can't make any sort of promise.
> 
> Again, thanks for reading! Your support is lovely, and we appreciate your patience so very much. Comments and kudos are always welcome, as usual. ^^


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chuck is pretty much a mind reader, and Dean can't focus.

Castiel checked his watch for the umpteenth time. 9:26 AM, it glowed back. The editor sighed, his fingers tapping against the well-worn tabletop. Chuck had texted him last night (if three in the morning counted as ‘night’), asking to meet up at nine at his favorite café, Sweet Thangs. Problem was, the author hadn’t showed up yet. Castiel felt himself frown. It wasn’t like Chuck to be late, especially without an explanatory text…

“More coffee?”

Castiel started, glancing up at the handsome barista who had appeared at his elbow. “Oh. Uh, yes, please.”

The guy smiled sheepishly, a pair of dimples framing his mouth. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, no, I wasn’t paying attention,” the editor murmured, a slight upturn to his mouth, “Thank you for the top-off.”

“Sure,” he answered with a wink of a pretty, hazel eye, “Just holler if you need anything at all.”

Shocked, Castiel gaped as the barista sauntered away. Had he just been hit on twice in less than twenty-four hours…?

The door burst open, and everyone in the café seemed to glance up in shock.

“Hey, Castiel!” Chuck waved energetically. He seemed more unkempt than usual as he jogged over to the table and flopped into the chair, his glasses slipping down his nose. “Sorry I’m late. My car broke down.”

“Again?”

He nodded, chest heaving as he pushed his frames back into place. “Yeah. Sorry for the nonexistent heads-up, too. My phone died mid-message as I was running here.”

Castiel shook his head. “You really need a new car.”

“Hey, I happen to like Marvin!” Chuck growled, a teasing light in his eyes. But it faded out, quickly replaced by concern as he zeroed in on the editor’s lip. “Shit, are those stitches?”

He winced. “Uh, yes.” He really hoped Chuck wouldn’t ask—

“How’d that happen?”

—that. He willed away the heat that threatened to color his face. “It’s… complicated.”

The author’s face froze up with shock. “Oh, my god. You got laid last night.”

Castiel choked on a mouthful of coffee. He coughed, eyes burning with half-formed tears.

“You okay?”

He shook his head, hacking up the last few drops of hot liquid and sucking in a deep, ragged breath. “What… the _hell?!”_

Chuck frowned intently. “Wait. You didn’t?”

Castiel stared at his colleague as if he’d just grown a second head, a fierce blush exploding across his face. “I am not going to discuss my sex life—or lack thereof—with you in a _café_.”

“But you almost did, right?”

_“Chuck—”_

“C’mon,” the author prodded, “How often do I actually get to gossip with you?”

He dropped his head into his hands. “I’m begging you, Chuck, _not in public._ ”

“At least tell me if he’s cute.”

Shock ran through him. Castiel had never told the author he was gay. He glanced up, completely baffled. “How did you…?”

Chuck just smiled amiably. “Just a guess, actually. But you do seem more attentive when we have a handsome barista. Like we do today.” He waved at the cutie that had maybe-flirted with the editor. “Mornin’, James! Can I get a cup of light roast?”

The guy dimpled back. “You got it, Mr. Shurley.”

“Thanks!”

Castiel stared. “And it doesn’t bother you? My… homosexuality?”

Chuck shot him a puzzled look. “Why would it? I don’t care who you date. As long as we can still get coffee and talk shop every once in a while,” he added thoughtfully, “I’d be pretty lost without you, man.”

He was speechless. The cool acceptance was… nice. Comforting, even.

“Here’s your coffee, Mr. Shurley,” James announced, setting the cup down with a neat flourish, “Can I get you anything else?”

Chuck smiled kindly. “I’m okay. You need anything, Castiel?”

The barista’s polite look seemed to change as he turned his attention to the editor. He felt a hint of heat creep into his cheeks. “No, thank you.”

“All right,” James answered cheerfully, still meeting Castiel’s eyes, “Just give a shout if you need something from little ol’ me.” He dispensed yet another wink before sashaying off.

“Two men hittin’ you up in one week?” Chuck whistled. “Dang. You got game, man.”

Castiel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not gonna let this go anytime soon, are you?”

“Nope!” He answered cheerily, taking a sip of coffee. “You’ll have to tell me at least five things about last night. And I get to decide if they count!” He stipulated with a stern look and a pointed finger. “ ‘I went out’ is not good information.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Fine. One, his name is Dean.”

“Nope! Full name or no dice.”

“Fine. Dean Winchester,” he growled, hoping it didn’t come across as a petulant snap.

Chuck’s eyebrows shot up. “You may have slept with a _Winchester?!”_

The editor tried very hard not to sulk. “Decidedly not.”

“That’s rough, man,” he murmured sympathetically, “But you almost did?”

“Depends. Does that count as one?”

The author sighed, raking his fingers through his messy, brown hair. “I suppose.”

Castiel gave a curt nod, toying with his stirring stick and decidedly _not_ pouting. “Yes, I almost did.”

Chuck folded his hands under his chin and stared expectantly.

“Please don’t ask what I think you’re going to ask.”

He smiled politely, which immediately set the editor on edge.

“Charles Shurley, for the love of—”

“If you know what I’m gonna ask, then just answer it.”

“No!”

He just quirked an eyebrow, waiting with his special brand of infinite, mild-mannered patience.

Castiel buried his head in his arms, seven shades of embarrassment burning his face and the tips of his ears. “Fine. _Fine_. Yes, he’s an excellent kisser.”

“How excellent?”

“Chuck…” He groaned, glaring balefully over the cocoon of his arms.

The author laughed good-naturedly. “Oh, don’t be a spoilsport.”

“Really, _really_ excellent, can we move on now?” Castiel begged desperately.

He pursed his lips. “Maybe.” A sly grin curled the corners of his mouth. “How far did you guys get? Second base? Third?”

Castiel rubbed his temples. “Have you no boundaries?”

“Not particularly.”

“I am _not_ answering that one.”

The author laughed. “I didn’t expect you to. No, my last question…” He pointed to his editor’s stitched up lip. “… is how the hell did you bust up your lip _almost_ having sex with Dean Winchester?”

He ruffled his dark hair uneasily. “Well, long story short—”

“No, no, no! I want a blow-by-blow,” Chuck griped, pushing out his lower lip pleadingly.

Castiel scowled. “You are not getting a detailed description. I know exactly what you’ll do with that information, and I don’t want to edit my own misadventures in next week’s chapter.”

“Sorry, not sorry,” he answered breezily, propping his head up on his palm with a cheeky grin, “Fine. I’ll be good. Give me the short version.”

“We knocked heads. His skull bested my lip. He drove me to the hospital, and…” Castiel hesitated.

Ever-observant Chuck perked. “And?”

The editor sighed, figuring he may as well bite the bullet. “And he let me crush his hand while Dr. Moseley put me back together. Then he took me home.”

His author wolf-whistled.

Castiel threw a wadded up napkin at his head, trying (and failing) to smother a grin as Chuck laughed raucously. “To _my_ home, you pervert.”

“Did he walk you to your door and everything?”

“I’m sorry, but you’re out of questions for the day,” he retorted primly, sipping his lukewarm coffee, “You’re welcome to discuss anything else. Like your job, for example.”

Chuck winced at Castiel’s pointed reminder. “Right. Uh… what did you think of the last chapter?”

The editor pulled out his hard copy. “I’ll have to do a little more research before I delve deeper into this chapter, but I’d like to discuss a few things with you…”

They mercifully dropped the subject of Castiel’s sad love life, putting their heads together to debate changes and possible additions to Chuck’s pride and joy.

///

Dean hadn’t been able to focus all morning at Bobby’s Auto Garage. Not even being elbow-deep in Mrs. Cagney’s beautiful ’57 Bel Air could distract him from the thought of baby blues and messy, black hair. He puttered around the engine absently. He wasn’t sulking. He wasn’t. Dean Winchester was not a sulker.

“Dean!”

He flinched hard, his knuckles catching on something sharp. “Son of a bitch,” he swore, flapping his smarting hand, “Jesus, Sam, what do you want?”

His brother shot him a grouchy look. “You’ve been staring at the guts of that car for thirty minutes.”

Dean frowned at the back of his hand. A single drop of blood was beginning to trickle down between his thumb and forefinger. “So?”

“So, do you know what’s wrong with it?”

He scoffed, yanking his grimy cloth out of his back pocket to mop off his hand. “Yeah.”

Sam looked skeptical. “Really.”

“Yes!”

“Then why are you digging around in the engine instead of changing the tail light?”

Dean froze. Then scowled at his brother’s stupid, know-it-all face. “Shut up.”

Sam sighed, shoving an errant lock of hair back into his bandana-headband thing. “What happened?”

“Sam,” he warned.

He was ignored. “Seriously, man. You’re working on Mrs. C’s ‘sex-on-wheels’ car, a _mint condition_ 1957 Chevy _Bel Air_ , and you aren’t drooling on it like you usually do.”

“Fuck you, Sam,” Dean spat, but there was very little venom behind the words. His heart wasn’t really into it today.

Sam held up his hands, a subtle quirk to his mouth. “Okay, look. You’re obviously not all here right now. Go take lunch.”

“It’s ten-thirty!”

“Dude, it’s eleven-forty five.”

Dean checked his watch skeptically. He tried not to grimace when he realized his brother was right. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Sam shoved him bodily into the lobby of Bobby’s shop. “Now, go text your boy toy and stop acting like a lovesick teenager.”

If he flipped the bird at his little brother’s retreating form, no one was around to prove it.

Dean grumbled about nosy younger siblings while he skulked to the kitchenette and snatched his lunch out of the fridge. He didn’t even bother heating it up before sitting at the little square table and pushing around his leftover spaghetti with a plastic fork. Absentmindedly, he checked his knuckles. They were a little raw-looking. He scowled half-heartedly. Stupid Sam. Who the hell sneaks up on people like that? Still, it was nothing a big-ass Band-Aid couldn’t fix. With a groan, he levered himself to his feet to dig one out of Bobby’s junk drawer. His cellphone felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket. _‘Go text your boy toy?’_ Seriously? They weren’t in middle school anymore. He chucked the wrappers into the trash moodily, slapping it on his hand with more force than strictly necessary. He wasn’t gonna text Cas. Nope. Too soon for that. He didn’t wanna look like a desperate fool.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Just to check it. Not because he was going to text Cas. Because he wasn’t.

…Well, he figured he should at least see if his lip was feeling better. Before he could talk himself out of it, he typed out a quick message.

TO: Castiel N.

_How’s the lip?_

He set his phone on the table and chewed absently on the spaghetti-flavored tines of his fork.

It felt like _years_ before it buzzed.

FROM: Castiel N.

_It’s doing well. Why did you label your contact “Hot Bartender?”_

Dean snorted, quickly tapping out a reply.

TO: Castiel N.

_Because I’m both of those things. ;)_

FROM: Castiel N.

_I concur. But the reminder is entirely unnecessary._

The brunet snorted.

TO: Castiel N.

_Didn’t want you to forget me._

FROM: Castiel N.

_I don’t think that will be happening anytime soon._

Dean grinned despite himself. It almost felt like flirting. Before he could think it over, he sent another message.

TO: Castiel N.

_I hope not. I still have a rain check to settle with you. ;)_

The lengthy pause that followed had Dean chewing on a particularly nasty hangnail.

FROM: Castiel N.

_I await that day with very little patience, I admit._

TO: Castiel N.

 _Same._ He hesitated. Did he dare…? Swallowing thickly, he added: _I’m bartending again tonight. If you wanna stop by_.

FROM: Castiel N.

_Would you like me to?_

TO: Castiel N.

_Is the Pope Catholic?_

FROM: Castiel N.

_I don’t see what the Pope’s religious affiliation has to do with it._

Dean laughed. He actually had to wipe away a tear before answering.

TO: Castiel N.

_It’s an expression, Cas. My way of saying Hell yes I want you to come!_

FROM: Castiel N.

_In which case, I would be delighted._

The smile that lit the mechanic’s face would’ve put the sun to shame, he just knew it.

TO: Castiel N.

_Great! I start at 8. See you when you get there. :)_

FROM: Castiel N.

_Then I will see you at 8, Dean._

He couldn’t keep the dopey smile off his face as he hopped up and waltzed back onto the shop floor, his untouched spaghetti forgotten on the scruffy table. The past twenty-four hours hadn’t been his best, but he was determined to make the next twelve kick ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, fillers! :) We wanted this chapter to showcase Chuck and Cas's relationship and get the boys together again. Totally because Cas has more research. No other reasons. Why do you ask?? >_>
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your unending patience! Our schedules have finally smoothed out... right at the end of our summer break. But fear not! We will be updating during the school year, until it drives one (or both) of us insane. :D Thanks to everyone who's left kudos and commented! You really do fuel our fire. :)
> 
> On to chapter 14!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nervous Cas is nervous, and Dean has a weird-ass work night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY FINALLY COOPERATED, THANK CHUCK! I AM SO SORRY. PLEASE ENJOY.

Castiel could have laughed at himself. Here he was, standing outside of SPN and wiping his sweaty palms on his pants for the second night in a row, this time knowing full well that Dean was inside waiting, and he was _still_ apprehensive about going in. His brothers—namely Balthazar—would have thought him pathetic.

He couldn’t say he disagreed.

It was only seven forty-five, but the line to get inside the building was nearly out into the street. Following Dean’s instructions, he stalked toward the man at the door, skipping the gargantuan conglomerate of bodies entirely. He checked his phone once again, rereading the last text the bartender had sent:

FROM: Hot Bartender (Dean)

_You can skip the line. Just stroll your cute ass up to the bouncer and tell him your name. I have you on my list. ;)_

A faint flush warmed his cheeks. Castiel couldn’t decide which part was more pleasing; that Dean thought he was aesthetically pleasing, or that he’d gone out of his way to put him on this ‘list.’ Whatever that meant.

“Howdy, stranger.”

Castiel jerked, his phone nearly slipping out of his clammy fingers. The man at the door stared at him, his cool eyes assessing and sharp under the brim of his odd hat. He leaned casually against the doorframe, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. His posture was tense, like he was itching to pounce on some poor soul. The editor couldn’t help but compare him to a shark.

“Sorry, friend, but you gotta wait in line just like ev’ryone else,” the shark-man murmured in a pleasant-yet-menacing tone. The Southern lilt didn’t soften the steely edge hiding there.

Castiel gripped his phone a little tighter. “Are you the bouncer?”

“Reckon I am,” he answered evenly, pulling one hand free from his pocket to nudge the bill of his cap upwards, “’S there somethin’ I can help you with?”

The editor squared his shoulders reflexively at the subtle bite in the man’s tone. “Dean asked me to meet him. He told me to tell you that my name is on his list.”

The man tilted his head slightly, pulling a small leather-bound notepad out of his pocket. He expression remained unchanged, except his blue eyes gleamed in a way that made Castiel uncomfortable in a vague sort of way. “You got a name, stranger?”

“Castiel,” he answered shortly, a thin thread of annoyance bleeding into the vague, uncomfortable feeling. Of course, he had a name…

The man’s keen blue eyes lit with recognition, his fingers stilling against the scruffy pages. Without so much as glancing at his ‘list,’ he inquired, “You just added today?”

“I believe so, yes.”

The man jerked his head toward the door, his posture relaxing minutely as he tucked the well-worn ledger back into his pocket. “Go ‘head in. He’ll be tickled pink that you showed.”

Castiel frowned, his head falling to one side, but decided not to ask what exactly that meant. With a tight-lipped smile and a nod to the bouncer, he slipped in.

The dance floor was almost as crowded as yesterday, but the music was… different. Quieter, less bass-heavy. Castiel frowned, taking a moment to assess the gathering. The people crowded onto the floor were still dancing with wild abandon, but they were dressed in a different fashion. More business casual than skimpy clubbing attire. He relaxed minutely. His plain button-down and black slacks wouldn’t stand out then. Good.

He wove around the clusters at the edge of the floor, making a beeline for the staircase leading to the Loft. A raucous group traipsed down the spiral steps as Castiel approached, spilling haphazardly onto the dance floor. He waited, tamping down his nerves and impatience by forcing himself to observe.

The cluster was a fairly even mix of men and women, all clad in the style of clothing that Castiel had expected to see when he arrived. They seemed… very uncoordinated. Probably drunk.

As if to further demonstrate the point, one man stumbled off the last step, nearly staggering straight into the editor. He caught himself on the railing, blinking blearily before smiling flirtatiously. “You’ve got real pretty eyes.”

Castiel didn’t have a chance to formulate a response before the drunken man was hauled upright by the scruff of his neck.

“Okay, that’s enough, Harry. No harassing Dean’s friends,” Jo grumbled, looking haggard and mildly vexed as she hauled him bodily off the steps, “Go find your girlfriend.”

He wandered off, much to Castiel’s relief. He turned to Jo. “You look awful.”

“Hi to you, too,” she grouched, but her smile was just as warm as it had been the night before, “Good to see you back, Cas.”

His head dropped to one side curiously. “You remembered me?”

Jo laughed. “You say that like Dean _didn’t_ just spend the last twenty-four hours talking about you.”

“Why would he do that?” Castiel asked, willing away the beginning of a truly unnerving _feeling_ in his chest.

“Because he likes you, stupid,” she growled before giving him a light shove toward the stairs, “Now, go talk to that great big idiot before he starts waxing poetic to the customers.”

Castiel blinked at her, startled but oddly pleased. She made one final shooing motion with her hands, grinning at the editor before he bounded up the stairs. He didn’t want the patrons to ‘suffer’ if he could be enjoying Dean’s poetic waxing, instead.

The Loft was almost silent, broken only by the sound of subtle background music and soft chatter. Castiel straightened the lapels of his shirt nervously. The small clusters of people were dressed in immaculate suits. Everything about them was neat and polished. The editor quickly felt grubby and sorely underdressed, despite his clean, freshly pressed clothing.

“Well, hello there, stranger,” Dean called out with a smile, motioning for Castiel to come closer, “I’ve been waiting.”

With a frown, the editor moved toward the bar. “I told you I’d be here at eight, and it’s seven fifty.”

“What can I say?” The bartender winked. “I’ve missed seeing you.”

And now he was even more confused. “It’s barely been sixteen hours.”

Dean laughed. “Wow, way to shoot a guy down, Cas.”

Dread washed over him. “I apologize, I didn’t intend—”

“Whoa, easy,” Dean laughed, holding up a hand, “I was joking.”

A wave of relief quickly followed. “Oh.”

Dean smiled at him kindly. “It’s okay, man. Relax.” He winked before turning, pulling a bottle down, pouring a glass of deep red liquid, and sliding it down the bar.

Castiel stopped it reflexively, then frowned. “Wine?”

“Yup. One of the house specialties,” Dean answered proudly, “My godmom’s favorite.”

Although he wasn’t a big fan of most varieties of wine, the editor deferred to the bartender’s good judgment and took a cautious sip. Sweet, spiced flavor burst across his tongue. The acidic bite of the alcohol was still present, but it was tastefully muted by a saccharine, grape-y flavor and… something else.

His eyes must have widened, because Dean had the smuggest look in human history plastered on his face. “Good, right?”

“Quite.”

The look only intensified, accentuated by the brunet’s proudly puffed chest. “High praise from a man of few words.”

A tiny bit pleased with the praise, Castiel let the corners of his mouth curl, mindful of the stitches. “It has a very unique flavor.”

“It’s mulled wine, if I remember right,” Dean answered, swiping at the counter with his ever-present polishing cloth, “It’s got some spices in it. Like cinnamon and… that stuff that smells like licorice. That’s why Ellen likes it so much.”

“She has excellent taste,” he praised, setting the glass down carefully.

“She’ll be happy to hear you like it.”

Dimples. Why did handsome men have such things? He already had the world’s greenest eyes. The combination was downright criminal.

Dean seemed to notice the ogling and waggled his eyebrows teasingly. “See something you like, Cas?”

“We’ve already established this.”

The smile on the bartender’s face was sweet and a little meek. “Yeah, I know. I just like hearing you say it.”

Castiel cracked a tiny smile. “You like hearing me say yes?”

“Honey, I’d like to listen to you say yes all night long.”

“...I have no response for that.”

Dean laughed, and Castiel couldn’t keep the smile off his face. He enjoyed that sound very much.

“So, Gabe tells me you’re an editor.” The crooked grin made the brunet’s green eyes sparkle.

A nervous knot started to form in the pit of Castiel’s stomach. “Yes, I am.”

“That’s freakin’ awesome, man,” Dean praised, relaxing the tension in the editor’s gut. He leaned on the bar, and the faint smell of cologne wafting off of his was unfairly distracting. “You do novels, right?”

“Yes. My author writes about monsters and the people who hunt them.”

A passionate light leaped to life in his eyes. “Like, paranormal fiction? What’s his name? Maybe I’ve read something by him.”

“Carver Edlund.”

“Oh.”

Castiel blinked, surprised by the recognition he saw there. “So you’ve read them.”

Dean blushed, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, yeah. I mean, I know it’s technically young adult-teen fiction, but the author’s really good and the characters are believable and I’m making a fool of myself, huh?”

“No, of course not,” Castiel blurted hastily, “That’s great. He would be thrilled to know that his novels are successful with an adult audience, too.”

He bit his lip, glancing through his lashes. “Uh, glad to help, I guess.”

The editor would be lying if he said that look didn’t make his heart beat a little faster. “How far into the series are you?”

Dean’s eyes lit up animatedly as they talked about character design and debated the merits of different plot devices. They ended up chatting about scenes, which led into Castiel’s sheepish explanation of his nightclub adventures.

“So, you didn’t come in with a plan to go home with someone?” Dean asked, genuine curiosity in his eyes.

Castiel just shook his head.

The bartender’s entire face lit up into a proud, lascivious smile. “Cas, you sly dog. Had me fooled.”

“You were distracting,” he countered thoughtlessly.

With a cheeky smirk, Dean leaned against the counter, his eyes gleaming in delight. “Trust me. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

The neatly ordered thoughts in the editor’s head scattered as his face warmed under the heavy implications. Dean’s stare dropped to Castiel’s mouth, but his cheeky smile warped into a grimace.

“I’m still sorry, by the way.”

Castiel simply shrugged. “It doesn’t really hurt, and I’m being careful. No intentional harm was done.”

Dean still looked sheepish. “Would it help if I told you anything you wanna know about SPN for your editing thing?”

“That would go a long way to repay your debt, yes,” he answered dryly, and Dean laughed as Castiel pulled out a small notebook and enthusiastically launched into his questions.

///

For the first time in a really goddamn long time, Dean was actually having a fantastic night. He had fun all the time, sure, but it was usually in the context of work. And being with Cas wasn’t work. Well, he was helping Cas _with_ work, but whatever, technicalities. It didn’t _feel_ like work. They talked for a solid hour about the finer points of dancing and the working of the bar, plus different events that were common to clubs (including a few that were exclusive to SPN). They got into a discussion about how the standard dancer would be employed and treated, and Dean had to explain how his mother had twisted the rules.

“Dancers don’t have access to healthcare?” Castiel demanded, aghast.

The bartender shook his head, sliding another drink to Deputy Henricksen. “Not usually. Mom made sure that the dancers here knew they’d have more secure employment and an insurance card.” Henricksen slid his empty back, and Dean caught it without so much as a glance as he reminisced. “Mom had to kinda bend the truth to get the cards, but the insurance guys in town loved her. Hell, when we were just starting out, Mom had a few dancers who had kids, and she paid the teenagers around here to babysit, no questions asked.”

Castiel’s eyes sparkled with intense interest. “Your mother sounds like a saint.”

Dean smiled, his cheeks warming. “Yeah. S’pose she was.”

Castiel frowned, and Dean wanted to smooth out the wrinkle between those gorgeous eyes.

“So…” The bartender cleared his throat nervously. “What else do you need to know about the whole club scene thing?”

Mercifully, that was enough to change the subject. The editor’s eyes lit up, and he fired off questions almost faster than Dean could answer them. He made inquiries about everything, from how the bar is stocked to the intricacies of managing a stage production, and honestly? Dean was impressed. Obviously, he and Carver had talked about a lot of things, because Dean was impressed they thought to ask about some of this stuff. The guys evidently took their jobs very, _very_ seriously. Like, who thought about how many different kinds of light setups they would need for performances? Apparently Cas. Whose eyes were aglow with excitement and interest as he hung on Dean’s every word. Who looked a lot less tense than he had yesterday night and actually started smiling a lot more. It was… actually kind of fun to talk to someone about club stuff. Comforting, even.

“Squirrel.”

Dean started before turning with a scowl. “Jesus H. Christ, Crowley!”

“Call someone closer,” he responded coolly, twisting his ring ominously. Dean’s back straightened as Crowley continued, “We have a problem.”

“What is it?”

“A _problem_. Downstairs.” He glared meaningfully. “Go help Jo.”

Dean growled, tucking his cleaning rag into his back pocket. So much for having one goddamn relaxing night. “Did you tell Benny?”

“What do you think?” Crowley snapped, “Of bloody course, I have.”

The brunet threw up his hands. “Well, then, what do you want from _me?_ ”

“What I _need_ is for _someone_ , namely _you_ , to assist Jo in clearing this situation up without causing a _scene_ ,” he ground out from between his teeth, pointedly ignoring Cas’s look of confusion and annoyance, “Benny is controlling traffic. You and Jo are doing damage control. Am I making myself clear to you, or shall I repeat it more slowly?”  
            The instinctual hotheaded retort that first came to Dean’s mind was quickly choked down. It wouldn’t do any good to get into a fight with his boss. But that didn’t mean that he was going to be civil.

“Fine,” he snapped back, hiking himself up onto the bar, scooting across the polished top, and dropping to the other side lightly, “Then I guess _you_ have to man the bar. Cas, come with me.”

Castiel flinched, his eyes widening as Dean wrapped his fingers around his wrist and tugged him out of his chair.

“No,” Crowley hissed, “He is not allowed—”

“You interrupted my date, my date comes with,” Dean interrupted acidly, not even sparing a glance at his boss as he strode toward the stairs. He barely noticed that Cas stumbled after him, barely getting his balance before Dean started down the steps at a breakneck pace. He couldn’t believe how obnoxious that short sonovabitch was, treating him like he was slacking off. God, if only he could sock Crowley right in his arrogant face…

“Dean, wait—” Cas gasped as he lost his footing and tripped into the bartender’s back. Instinctually, Dean’s hands flew out and gripped the rail, keeping both of them from tumbling down the stairs with sheer willpower and adrenaline. Both men froze for a few moments. Inappropriate as it was, Dean couldn’t help but feel comforted by the pounding of the editor’s heart against his back.

“Sorry, man,” Dean sighed, guilt twisting his guts. Was the universe _trying_ to kill them? Or was his own bad luck rubbing off onto Cas? This was the second night in a row that one—or both—of them almost got seriously hurt. Maybe Dean was just that unlucky. Maybe the universe really was against the Winchesters and everyone they loved.

Castiel tugged the shoulder of Dean’s shirt until he was forced to face him. “What’s going on?”

The bartender took in a deep breath then blew it out. Now was not the time for a bout of self-loathing. “It’s… complicated. Because I don’t really know anything, either,” he interjected quickly when the editor’s face crumpled in confusion, “Not because it’s hard to explain or anything, it’s just that every situation is different, and Crowley’s not so good at telling us what’s up.” The wrinkle between those perfect eyebrows deepened, and Dean sighed. “Look, you don’t have to follow me into this mess, but… you can if you want.”

There was a loaded moment as Dean shifted from foot to foot, waiting for his companion to say… something. _Anything_. If Cas hadn’t made it perfectly clear that he could handle himself, Dean wouldn’t have offered at all, but he had more than proved himself yesterday. Besides, Dean would feel pretty shitty if Cas went home so early just because of this. And the little, selfish voice in the back of his head was very much against letting him stay upstairs by himself, all delicious and awkward and bored. He wanted more time to talk and flirt and help with Carver’s book.

Time passed in agonizing slowness before Castiel finally nodded once. “We should hurry.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he squeezed the editor’s hand lightly and hustled them down the rest of the stairs. This time, Cas was ready. He kept up easily, skipping steps to keep pace, and Dean felt an irrational surge of excitement. Cas wasn’t bothered by his clumsy explanation, or that his haste had almost killed (or, at least, embarrassed) them both. He was just trying to keep up. Maybe this wasn’t as bad as Dean thought it was. Maybe Cas was genuinely okay with this weirdness…

“Dean! Cas!”

Both men whipped around toward Jo’s voice. She was beckoning them to one of the more secluded booths on the outskirts of the dance floor. They rushed to her, dodging the tipsy, gyrating bodies that leaked out from the Mosh Pit.

“What’s going on, Jo?” Dean demanded as soon as he was within earshot.

Jo frowned. “Crowley didn’t…?”

“When does he ever?”

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Never, I know, I know.”

Someone—whoever triggered the emergency, Dean assumed—shifted beside her, groaning in confusion and pain. Jo petted their side and made soft, soothing noises. They quickly settled with a pleased sigh. Castiel tilted his head, a frown creasing up his forehead some more.

“What do we have?” Dean asked softly, trying to subtly assess the lump of dark cloth as he slipped into the other side of the booth and pulled Cas in after him.

“A zombie,” she answered, matching his quiet tones as she stroked the lump.

“A what?” Cas whispered into his ear.

Dean tried not to shiver at the feel of warm breath against his neck. “It’s a code word for someone who’s drugged out of their mind,” he murmured back, “We don’t wanna stir the entire club up by talking about druggies. We get these from time to time but… not usually on a Thursday.” He frowned as he mused aloud. “And usually it’s more than one. That’s weird as hell.”

“You’re telling me,” Jo grumbled as she flicked her hair out of her face angrily. “It’s not our usual kinda OD, either. She was perfectly coherent, and then she just dropped like a lead balloon. No confused mumbling or erratic walking or anything.”

Dean felt his face pinch up. “That’s… really not normal.” A lone wolf zombie was strange enough, but one who deteriorated that quickly? Something was horribly wrong with that picture. Party druggies usually came in packs, and date rape drugs usually had clear tells. It didn’t sound like anything the club had seen before…

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he hardly noticed Cas was moving until his arm slid across the table toward Jo. Between his fingers was a plain black hair tie.

Jo blinked up at him, and so did Dean.

“Um… you seem like you could use one,” he offered awkwardly, his cheeks taking on an endearingly rosy tint as he fidgeted with the tie.

She offered him a thankful smile and plucked it from his fingers. “You can keep this one, Dean. It’s always handy to have a kung-fu Boy Scout Ken doll around.”

It was one of those moments in life where Dean couldn’t help but laugh at how ridiculously weird his life was. Here he was, sitting in a booth with a gorgeous novel editor, who was blushing and offering his childhood friend a hair tie, who was putting her hair up while sitting with someone who was so far gone that they probably didn’t know where they were. Life was weird. Especially Dean’s life.

“Where did you even get that, man?”

Castiel picked at his nails, but never had the chance to answer as the drugged-out girl sat straight up. Jo flinched away from her, almost falling out of the seat.

A shock ran up Dean’s spine as the girl looked around with wide, unseeing eyes. Her eye makeup was starting to smear down to her cheeks, and her skin was dewy with sweat. Strands of blonde hair stuck to her forehead and neck, making a damp frame around her sickly gray face.

Dean couldn’t believe he even recognized that gaunt, strung-out visage. _“Jess?”_

Jo gaped at her openly in pure astonishment as Jess twitched toward his voice, her sunken eyes flicked over him sightlessly. “Dean…?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but her glassy stare suddenly latched onto him with laser-sharp focus. An unpleasant feeling ran up his spine as her entire demeanor changed. The twitchy tension in her muscles vanished, leaving her to slouch bonelessly against the back of the booth.

“Well, ‘lo, stranger,” she slurred, an unpleasantly flirtatious grin stretching the thin, cadaverous flesh of her cheeks, “’S been a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully it was worth the wait...? :D *slowly edges away and hides behind a tree* We are sorry. We love you. :'D *whispers* Please don't hurt us. We are working on the next chapter. As always, please comment if we have missed something, or even if you just want to say hi! We will be posting the next chapter very soon... so long as the boys cooperate. :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with us! Have some more plot! ~~<3

Castiel couldn’t help himself. He stared, his eyes flicking between Dean and the beautiful girl as he fought to untangle an ugly, mixed-up pang of envy and confusion and concern.

Jess’s eerie smile didn’t waver as she tried to shift toward Dean. Her drug-addled body jerked in a disturbingly puppet-like manner as she attempted to move, limbs dragging like they weighed hundreds of pounds. Her strength faltered, though, and she ended up slumping back against the bench with a breathless sigh.

“Too much work,” she slurred, her eyes becoming glassy once again.

“What’s going on?” Castiel whispered into Dean’s ear, concern winning out when she went inhumanly still.

“I… honestly don’t know,” Dean answered softly. Anxiety creased his forehead.  “I’ve never seen her like this.”

And that was all it took for the envy to come surging back. “Oh?”

He smiled just a little at Castiel’s gruff tone. “Take it easy, Hoss,” he teased weakly, “She was Sam’s girlfriend for a long time, and—”

Jess snapped upright again, startling another collective swear from Jo and Dean. This time, her eyes fell on Castiel. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up as she stared at him, her sharp, unblinking eyes boring holes into his head. He swallowed, his throat making a dry click. Her entire face crumpled into hazy confusion.

“You look like… colors,” she murmured, her eyelashes fluttering as her mascara-stained eyes narrowed in concentration, “Pretty colors ‘n wings…”

“Oh… thank you,” he answered, forcing the words to be a statement rather than a question, “That’s very… kind of you to say.”

“Welcome,” she whispered mushily, her skin looking more ashen by the second, “Black wings. ‘N… colors…”

Jo subtly reached over while Jess was talking and took her wrist between her fingers, mouthing the number of heartbeats silently. Jess didn’t even seem to notice, her body wilting back into the bench.

“Dean,” Jo whispered evenly, her eyes contrastingly desperate and wild, “We need a hero.”

It must have been another code, because Dean stiffened in his seat. “Didn’t Crowley call?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Right,” she growled, skepticism sharpening her tone as she helped ease Jess out of the booth. “Call it in, I’m taking her to the hospital.”

Dean was already tapping at his phone as he jumped to his feet. “I’ll get Sheriff Mills on it.”

“You’re the best,” she answered absently, struggling to keep Jess upright as her wobbly knees gave out.

Castiel wiggled out after Dean, slipping Jess’s other arm over his shoulder and earning a thankful nod from Jo. He sent a small smile back at her, a tiny bit pleased by her approval as Jess squirmed in their grasp.

“I c’n walk. Lemme do it…!”

“Shuddup, Jessica,” Jo shot back, clamping one arm firmly around her waist as she tried to wiggle weakly out of their arms, “We’re taking you for a drive.”

“But I don’t wanna! I wanna stay here with you…”

Jo rolled her eyes so aggressively that Cas wondered if it hurt. “I’m coming, too, Jess.”

She sighed, her head lolling toward Jo’s neck. “Good. I miss you a lot.”

Dean frowned, shooting both girls a puzzled look as he murmured into his phone, and his childhood friend scowled darkly.

“Shut your face.”

“Miss ev’rything ‘bout you,” she plowed on as if she hadn’t heard, “My beau’ful Joanna.”

Jo’s cheeks were starting to turn pink. Jess must have been heavier than expected for her to exert enough effort to flush, Cas reasoned, so he made a conscious effort to take on more of Jess’s weight.

It took some colorful language and creative maneuvering, but they managed to get Jess out of the club and into the backseat of Jo’s car. Cas sincerely hoped that these trips to the hospital with Dean weren’t destined to become a regular event.

///

Dean snapped his phone shut brusquely. “Jody’s got an officer en route, so we’ve got an escort.”

Jo blew out a heavy breath. “Thank God for small miracles.”

“Call someone closer than that,” Dean muttered darkly.

Castiel frowned at him, finally managing to close the door of Jo’s car without getting any of Jess’s skin or clothing or hair caught. “You already have.”

Jo and Dean simultaneously shot him a puzzled look.

His eyes widened in realization, wincing as blood surging into his face. “Oh. That was… a figure of speech.”

Dean huffed a soft, humorless laugh. “Appreciate you trying to lighten the mood and all, Cas, but that was a really shitty joke.”

“I wasn’t intending—”

“Both of you shut up and get in the damn car,” Jo growled at them as a wailing police car swung into the lot, “We need to go.”

The escorted ride to the hospital was… awkward. Jess waxed poetic about Jo when she was lucid and shivered violently when she wasn’t, while Jo spent the entire ride furiously red with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Castiel sat silently beside her, turning every so often to frown at Jo’s increasingly red face, while Dean sat in the back, keeping an eye on Jess. He frowned deeply as she kept talking about how cute Jo’s butt was. (“Like… like perfect, round _ass boobs,_ Dean!”) He had his suspicions, but he kept them to himself.

The moment they arrived in the emergency entrance, a special breed of chaos erupted. Before Jo had even turned the car off, a group of nurses flocked around them, stone-faced and shouting orders to each other. One of them broke away and darted to Jo as she scrambled out of her car, his sharp voice demanding contact information. She barely managed to stammer out her name and phone number before the nurse melted back into the collective, his voice blending into the others as they took vitals and shouted things at each other that barely sounded like English.

Jess was whisked inside in less than a minute. The soft whoosh of the sliding glass doors muted the commotion as Jo, Dean, and Cas gaped.

“That was quick,” Dean muttered under his breath, stepping all the way out of the car.

“Do we… can we go in?” Jo asked in a small voice. She wrung her hands with vicious twists that made Dean cringe. “I mean, we aren’t family or anything…”

Castiel frowned, closing his door with unnecessary gentleness. “Excuse me if I’m overstepping my bounds, but aren’t you and Dean still technically working?”

Dean murmured, “Crowley—”

“To hell with that dick!” Jo seethed, throwing up her arms as her petite frame shook with violent rage. “He didn’t do anything to help, he was ready to just… let her die! Fuck him, fuck the club, and fuck everything else!” She stormed inside, her ponytail flicking like the tail of a whip. “I’m waiting here until she’s stable.”

“Jo—”

She whirled like a tornado, her eyes already red and stormy. “If you try to stop me, Dean Winchester, I swear to _fucking_ _God_ —”

He held his hands up in surrender, halting her tirade with an unassuming tone. “I just want to know is whether you want me to take your baby back to the bar or park her in a spot.”

In a split second, Jo’s body tensed like she was going to throw a punch. Dean braced himself for the blow, ready to take the brunt of her rage, but the moment passed almost as quickly as it had come. She collapsed into herself like a dying star as she pushed her keys into his hand. “Spot. Please.”

Dean managed to rope her into a quick hug before she hurried inside, head ducked to hide her tears.

**Author's Note:**

> We are both on Tumblr: [BennyBatch](http://fascinatingmisterspock.tumblr.com) is here, and [Forgotten_Alice12](http://e-rivers.tumblr.com) is here. ((We also have a joint blog [here](http://letswritefluff.tumblr.com) if you wanna check us out even moar. :D))


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